Batman Revealed
by vballmania23
Summary: What would have happened if Bruce turned himself in at the press conference? Each chapter is from a different POV and explores how the story would have changed - or stayed the same - had Bruce spoken up before Dent could confess.
1. Interrogation

**A/N: **These are a series of oneshots all about what would have happened had Bruce turned himself in. They're written in first person, but they ARE NOT the SAME person. This first oneshot is from the POV of a cop. Please R/R. I love reviews, and anything you feel like saying about my story is appreciated. Flame, comment, point out mistakes in my story, whatever you feel like. They all make me happy.

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**Interrogation**

His posture was that of someone who had done the dance before. The slightly slumped shoulders, the stretched-out feet, one hand carelessly propped on the arm of the chair while the other one rests on the table. It was the stance I've seen hundreds of perps use in interrogation rooms. He could have passed for just another punk, the kind that was arrested in handfuls for petty crimes, if he wasn't wearing a suit that probably cost more than my yearly salary. It intrigued me that Bruce Wayne, billionaire and prince of Gotham managed to learn the world-known punk posture.

Another thing that intrigued me was his silence. The tabloids had always portrayed him as a spoiled, thoughtless, arrogant playboy who had more money than common sense. So why was a man famous for his flippant remarks being so stony silent? But then, of course, one had to remember his alternate persona. The man that sat before me really was an enigma. He showed the world two extremes of his personality, but what was he really like? Was he Batman or Bruce Wayne? Which one was the mask, or were they both? Was the real man a mix of the two extremes?

The thick silence we sat in contrasted the wildly whirling thoughts streaking through my head. Nothing was to be learned from a staring contest, so I cleared my throat and asked the first question that paused long enough in my mind to make sense. "Why bats?"

Wayne lifted an elegant eyebrow, and there was the rich socialite I had expected to see. Heat rushed through my cheeks as I realized how stupid it sounded. Here was the infamous Batman and the first question I ask him is his taste in costumes.

Determined to cover up my mistake I plowed on to the next question. "Where did you learn all the martial arts that Batman has proven to be proficient in?"

Wayne shrugged. "Here and there." The hand that had been resting on the table now made a sweeping gesture before returning to its perch.

I had never been the most patient person, and the beginnings of annoyance fizzled in my mind. Could he have given a more vague answer?

"_Where_, Mr. Wayne?"

"Here and there."

"At least tell me when."

"When I was traveling."

Ah, so Wayne finally speaks about his mysterious seven-year absence. Apparently he hadn't been vacationing in the billionaire hotspots, like he had claimed. "And where would you have traveled?"

Wayne tilted his head in thought. "London, Paris, Cairo, parts of Africa, Tibet…" He shrugged. "Here and there."

I could almost swear there was a twinkle in his eyes as he said the last phrase.

"What did you do while you were there?"

"Went sight-seeing."

"In Tibet?"

"They have very interesting mountains. I even got to hike up one."

"Oh really?" He was trying to get off the topic, but I admit I was curious about where he had gone during his disappearance.

"I don't think Ra's was very happy about his monastery burning down though…"

I blinked, trying to process that statement. First of all - monastery? Second, he burnt down _another_ ancient building? Third, who was Raz?

The corners of Wayne's lips were twitching, trying to hide the smirk that was inching its way onto his face. Of course he had said that to confuse me. The man had the punk attitude to go with his posture. My eyes narrowed. I didn't like perps messing with me, and billionaire or no, Wayne was still just another criminal. One that many people looked to as a hero, but still technically a criminal.

"So, let me get this straight. You spent seven years traveling the globe and learning how to fight."

"No." Now Wayne was definitely smirking.

I nearly sputtered with anger. "Mr. Wayne, you just told me that you _did_ learn to fight while traveling."

"Yes, I did say that."

"Then why do you deny it!"

"I didn't spend all seven years learning to fight. Surely you don't think me _that_ incompetent."

I glared at Wayne, who now was giving me the blinding grin that all of his current pictures portrayed. He must be getting a kick out of this. Just as I was about to retaliate, the interrogation room door opened. Harvey Dent came striding in, and dismissed me with a curt nod that did not help my temper. Just because he was DA didn't mean I was the dust on his shoes. I silently fumed as I stormed out. My curiosity was battling my anger and pride. Eventually, curiosity won out and I and went to see what was going on through the one-way mirror.

The speaker was on, and the DA's voice came through tinny but clear enough to understand. "Bruce Wayne." Dent's back was to me, but I could see him shake his head. "I definitely did not expect _you_ to be the legendary Batman."

Wayne smiled, but this one was not the full-blown one that he had given me. It was more subdued, less arrogant, and seemed to fit him better.

Dent opened his briefcase and hauled out a stack of papers. He thumped them down with a dull thud that crackled through the speaker. "Well the official charges against you are – quite numerous. However, I think we can get most of them thrown out, if we spin them right."

Wayne's brow creased in confusion, and I agreed with him. Wasn't Dent the DA? The _prosecuting_ lawyer? "Harvey – what are you talking about?"

Dent glanced up. "Your case, of course. I've volunteered to take it. Now–"

Wayne held up a hand. "Harvey, I appreciate the offer, but I'm pleading guilty to all counts."

_What?_ If he was pleading guilty, why did the Captain tell me to interrogate him? I pushed my confusion to the back of my mind for the moment. The drama unfolding was much more important, and I could figure out that puzzle later.

"-Can't just give _up_, Bruce! You're Batman! The city's hero!"

Huh, I seem to have missed part of Harvey's rant.

Wayne's face had become completely serious. "I knew the risks when I first became Batman, and I am ready to take the consequences."

"No! You-"

"Harvey."

Bruce leaned forward, abandoning any pretense of the happy-go-lucky playboy or the punk façade. Even through the speaker his voice was intense and earnest.

"You are the city's White Knight. People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy. Batman was one. You gave them another one, a better one when you arrested over five _hundred_ criminals in one fell swoop. Batman gave the city what it needed, but now it needs something else. It needs a hero with a face, someone they can look up to. I'm not popular right now "- I snorted at this. The whole city was crying for his blood to appease the Joker and stop his destruction of the city. - "and you cannot associate with me. The people _need_ you to lead them, to set an example. You can do something Batman never could. Don't ruin it. Remember what you said when I first met you? About the Romans choosing one man to defend a city? Well now it's your turn to serve your city."

I could nearly see the trust shining through Bruce's eyes. He put so much stock into Dent, into the things he stood against. The Batman was handing over his city to a man he had absolute trust in.

Dent took a deep breath and placed both hands on the table. He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something, then stood up without a word. He quickly threw the papers back into his briefcase before heading towards the door. I scurried over and opened it. Dent seemed half angry and half shocked. His jaw was twitching but there was a dazed look in his eyes. I nodded respectfully (never a bad thing when he's the DA, even if he's an arrogant prick) and watched him leave, his old IAB nickname floating through my head. He had certainly seemed to be of two minds of Batman's decision

I peered into the open door of the interrogation room. Wayne was sitting in the chair, head in his hands. He let out a long sigh, and I could see the corners of his mouth curl up in a small contented smile. Batman had passed on his duty to another.


	2. Cafeteria

**A/N:** Yes, I know I've skipped the whole issue of transporting Bruce from the police station to the jail. I'm planning on going back to write another chapter that goes between this and Interrogation. I wrote this all in one go, because the idea just popped up in my brain and wrote itself. Just in case you didn't read my other A/N, this is a DIFFERENT PERSON. Although it's still first-person POV, this is not the same character. Anyways, please review. They make me happy and all fuzzy inside. Unless they're flames, but those keep me toasty warm so it's a fair trade. I appreciate any comments you feel like posting.

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**Cafeteria**

My job at the prison was neither disgusting nor prestigious. I simply worked in the cafeteria serving food. I'd take a spoonful of whatever glop the city had decided was food for today and plop it on all the plates that went by. It was not invigorating. It was boring and tedious, but it paid well.

Many times I would just daydream as I mechanically gave food to the prisoners. _Scoop. Glop. Scoop. Glop. _Today, however, the lunch line was much more interesting. Usually the cafeteria was filled with noise, of convicts shouting and laughing and fighting. Today nothing was above a whisper. Nearly everyone was watching the newest inmate. Everyone knew someone was going to start a fight with the man, but nobody knew who would gather enough courage first.

If I had not seen the face of Bruce Wayne on a dozen gossip magazines while buying groceries, I would not have thought there was anything remarkable about him. He was dressed in the same orange jumpsuit all the inmates wore, and stood in line just like them. He had the same shuffling walk that many inmates here for longer than six months develop. _What's the point of hurrying?_ It said. _I've got enough time to waste._

Today the food was yellow, with noodle shaped blobs floating around. The menu claimed it was macaroni and cheese. Wayne looked at his plate as I served him. He seemed strangely… happy. As if the food here was actually good, compared to the gourmet meals he would eat as a billionaire.

Wayne was walking by my station as Tim and his gang walked up. There were seven of them total, all built like refrigerators. What little conversation there was immediately stopped, and the guards shifted nervously in their posts.

A feeling of dread rose over me. The criminals hated Wayne because he had given them to the police. Any action the guards took would be stopped by a mob of angry criminals all looking for revenge. There were too many criminals, too little guards. A fight was going to happen, and the guards were too smart to risk their lives stopping it.

Wayne regarded the men approaching him with half-closed eyes. He stood there as Tim bashed the tray out of his hands. He said nothing as Tim taunted him. He simply rolled with the first punch Tim sent sailing at his head. The second time Tim tried to punch him, Bruce dodged and punched back.

He attacked so suddenly I almost missed it. With one blow, Tim was down. His friends sent up a roar and charged. Wayne was surrounded in a mad tussle of bodies all clad in the same orange jumpsuits. The only sounds in the cafeteria were cries of pain (Were those only from Tim's gang?) and the meaty thud of flesh hitting flesh. Nobody else had the courage to speak.

Wayne was fast and deadly. While Tim's gang threw wild punches and kicks, Wayne moved and dodged like lightning. One moment he would be in front of a man, the next moment the man would be down and he would be launching a kick at someone else.

The fight was quick and brutal. Somehow, Wayne had managed to beat seven men single handed and emerge victorious. All seven men were sprawled out on the ground, unconscious. Wayne simply stepped over their unconscious forms and headed to his tray. He looked down at the food spilled all over the floor and sighed. "And it tastes so much better than last time…"

He muttered so softly I wasn't sure I had heard correctly. _What last time?_ Wayne turned towards the doors and strolled out of the cafeteria, acting as casual as if he usually beat up criminals daily. _Wait…_ It suddenly occurred to me that I had seen _the_ Batman in action. My eyes shifted from the door to the unconscious forms of Tim and his gang. Yes, the Batman had been provoked and he had attacked with such force it had been astounding.

The door swung back into place with a dull thud that echoed through the room. It seemed to startle everyone out of some sort of trance. The long line of inmates again shuffled forward to be served while the guards emerged from their stations to cart away Tim and his gang.

_Scoop. Glop. Scoop. Glop. _I went back to the boring routine, and now my mind was quite occupied. What would Batman do next?

* * *

The next day, I found out the answer to my question. It was breakfast, and the inmates shuffled forward slower than usual. With no caffeine to speak of, most of the inmates were lethargic and less rowdy in the morning. The subdued atmosphere from yesterday still permeated the air.

The doors crashed open, startling everyone out of the early morning apathy. Someone – I couldn't tell who – went sliding into the room. Someone else was quick to follow, staggering backwards. A third came in after them, swinging a punch at the man still standing. The third man I recognized – Bruce Wayne.

A small mob of men followed him. I tried to count all the attackers, but it was impossible when they were all moving around. I estimated, and put it at about eight. So, ten men total had tried to attack Wayne.

Another lunged and Wayne sent him flying across the cafeteria to hit a table face first. I winced. While Wayne was good at fighting, he wasn't very gentle. Every single man from Tim's gang was spending serious time in the prison hospital for their attempt to attack Batman.

Someone in the mob attacking Wayne yelled, and another group of at least four separated from the spectators. Now, it was something like twelve against one. Wayne jabbed his hand at someone's throat and dove backwards, rolling towards the cafeteria line. He grabbed one of the plastic trays and held it up just in time to intercept someone's fist.

There was a crack, and I knew something broke. The tray was still in one piece, so that only left the inmate's hand. The man was hunched over in pain, and Wayne disabled him with a rabbit punch straight to the temple. The next few minutes were pandemonium as Wayne beat over ten men with a _food tray_, of all things.

I now knew why the criminals used to whisper of Batman with such fear. If this was the damage he could do inside a prison, imagine what he could do with his suit and all the fancy gadgets he was said to have.

A screech brought my wandering thoughts back to the fight in front of me. The only remaining man had somehow procured a knife. My guess was one of the friendlier guards had been bribed to smuggle it in. However it had gotten in, the inmate was now very desperately trying to stab Wayne. The food tray was tossed aside with a clatter, and I bit my tongue to stop myself from yelling something. _Stupid!_ Why had Wayne thrown away his only weapon? He really was crazy!

While Wayne was concentrating on the newest threat, another inmate had stepped away from the silent spectators. Were they forming a conspiracy against him or something? I blinked at how stupid my thought sounded. Of _course_ they were - he was the Batman!

As tempting as it was to shout out a warning to Wayne, I bit my tongue again. Cafeteria workers who took sides ended up very unpopular and very dead.

The unnoticed conspirator lunged at Wayne's back and slashed the knife towards his unguarded side. It connected with his shoulder, and Wayne grunted in pain. The man in front of Wayne took his momentary distraction to lunge forward. He tried to stab instead of slash, but Wayne managed to push away the attack at the last minute.

Now there were two men with knives against an injured Wayne. I didn't recognize the two inmates, but their smiles were predatory and gleeful as they circled the injured ex-vigilante. They thought they had the upper hand. So did everybody else, until Wayne attacked. He grabbed one of the hands holding a knife and twisted it violently. Something snapped, and the knife clattered to the floor. His other hand latched onto the unfortunate man's neck, and Wayne literally _threw_ the man at his companion.

The two of them went crashing down in a mess of limbs, and Wayne dispatched them both with swift kicks. Apparently he didn't believe in not kicking men when they were down.

Now that the battle was over, I had expected Wayne to show some sign of pain. Instead, he just rolls his shoulder and looks at the spectators.

"If anybody else would like to try and kill me, I suggest they do it now."

His voice is calm and sparkled with just a hint of humor. I just shake my head. If he wasn't running around dressed like a bat, Wayne was in prison brawling with criminals and egging them on.

Now that the fight is over, the guards emerge from their safe zones. Only in Gotham would the guards wait until _after_ the fight is over to act. They were probably placing bets on who was likely to win.

They cautiously approach Wayne, who's busy trying to see his knife wound. He's twisting around and I _know_ that moving that way had to hurt his shoulder, but he doesn't even flinch. He turns to the guards and talks to them with the same voice he had addressed the other prisoners with.

"I'd appreciate it if you would take me to the prison hospital. I would sew it up myself, but it's kind of in a hard-to-reach place…" He trails off, and I'm not sure whether he was serious about patching himself up. The fact that he doesn't even mention painkillers kind of shocks me. It's usually the first thing people ask for before somebody shoves a needle in their open wounds.

The head guard (Oh, what is his name? I can never remember. I think it's Gary or something like that) motions to one of the rookies. He looks like he's going to cry from fear, but grabs Wayne's arm and leads him out of the cafeteria.

This time, nobody even tries to eat. The inmates are too busy discussing the fight with friends to bother with breakfast, which is supposed to be eggs of some sort.

Jerry leans over his pot of mystery food and half-whispers "How many men do you think it will take to beat him?"

My gaze goes from the men who are being carted out by the guards, and I just shake my head. "Honestly? I don't know if I even want to find out."


	3. Visitors

First of all, let me just say that all of you reviewers are AMAZING! Seriously, I've never had a story get so man reviews, alerts, and favorites so fast. If I could, I'd go and hug you all. Thank you so much for the reviews and everything, they make me so happy. :) I was originally going to stop writing fanfic so I can get my essays for summer reading done, but I'm being terrible and updated anyway. This story is from the POV of Gordon, and is the first one where the person actually has a name. I know you probably already know this, but just to keep things very clear this is not the same person as the first or second chapter. If you see anything misspelled, horribly wrong, or that you don't understand, please say something. I put this one up faster than the other ones, because I had meant to get it done yesterday... Anyway, enjoy, and I'd really like some more of your awesome reviews ;)

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I walked into the jail with hunched shoulders, a hat pushed low over my face, my coat collar popped up, and sunglasses on. Not the most inconspicuous disguise, but as long as they didn't recognize me I was alright. Luckily, I didn't know any guards at the jail. A dead cop going in to visit a vigilante would not pass over well.

The issue of seeing Wayne was smoothed over with a fifty exchanging hands. Batman might have made a difference on the streets, but the jails still belonged to the corrupt and those willing to let things slide for the chance to line their pockets.

When Wayne was led out, I examined him closely. How was it I had met the man in costume and the man out of costume, yet I had never been able to figure out they were the same person?

Once the guards led Wayne to the cubicle, I motioned for them to leave. They hesitated, so I placed a twenty in plain sight. Wayne nodded at me and picked up the phone, a look of polite surprise and interest on his face. Gotham socialite oozed from his very pores. He just waited as I watched him from behind my sunglasses.

Finally, I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. I opened with what I had wanted to say to the unmasked Batman since he'd strung Falcone up to that floodlight. "Hello, friend."

Wayne's confusion only lasted for a second, and then his eyes widened with shock, which gave me a little spark of satisfaction. I had been able to surprise the immoveable Batman. "Gordon? But you're supposed to be-"

"Dead."

He surveyed my covered face, looking for the answer to his unasked question. _But I saw you get shot. How did you survive?_

I smiled. Act convincingly enough, and they overlook even the simplest of solutions. "I wore a bulletproof vest."

Wayne blinked, then got a half-exasperated half-admiring look on his face. He shook his head. "Why I didn't think of that, I'll never know."

"For the same reason I never thought that only a billionaire playboy would be able to afford all of Batman's gadgets and technology. Your car wasn't exactly conspicuous, Wayne."

He smiled. "Please, call me Bruce."

A smile had crept upon my face in response without me even realizing until it was already there. Batman didn't have the luxury of friends, and Wayne was a friendless pompous playboy. Bruce was the true man, the one that had the ideals of Batman but the openness of Wayne. "Will do, Bruce."

Bruce leaned back in his chair and switched the phone to his other hand. As he did, I noticed the nearly imperceptible wince and his swollen knuckles. I hadn't become a cop just because of the pay. I could tell he had been fighting.

"What happened?"

He gave me a confused look, then followed my gaze to the hand now resting on the ledge of the cubicle. "Oh, nothing. Just a brawl." He slipped the hand into his lap, trying to ignore my frown.

"I doubt there's been just one." Silence. "I tried to make them keep you in a solitary cell like they have with Lau." I shook my head. "Garcia practically pitched a hissy fit in my office, he was so mad. Bad for the public image and all that political garbage."

Frankly, it had disgusted me how the Mayor had gone along with the Joker's demands and public pressure. Bruce just smiled. "Politicians. Almost as bad as rich playboys, you know."

I snorted. "I think the world could use a few more playboys like you, Bruce."

"The world could also use a few more men like yourself." Bruce is serious now, and I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I'm no hero, but Bruce had chosen me to be Batman's source in the Police Department. _You're a good cop. One of the few. _

I shift uncomfortably, searching for a topic to talk about. "I forgot to tell you. Garcia made me Commissioner."

Bruce simply smiles, taking this news a lot better than the fact I was alive. "Congratulations."

I tilted my head in response.

"You don't have Batman on your side any more, but I know you'll do just fine. You and Dent can clean up this city in a way Batman never could." There it was again, that trust and faith in my character. I could lie, he had just seen that with my faked death, but he still places so much stock in my character.

I look at him, trying to figure out _why_. Why did this man throw away his life to fight criminals? Why did he have such trust in me and Dent?

The image of a nine-year-old Bruce sitting alone in the middle of the precinct flashed in my head. Was that why he had trusted me? Because I was the only cop to try and help him, instead of abandoning him with only a coat for comfort?

"I have one question, though."

I started slightly, then felt embarrassed. Had I really become so lost in though I had forgotten where I was? Age, it seemed, had more than just physical effects.

"If you're supposed to be dead, then how did they make you Commissioner?"

"It was only temporary. I wanted to be dead so that my family wouldn't be attacked by the Joker because of what I do. I was still on the force, but I covered my face…" I gestured to my rough disguise. "It was working well, until the Joker tried to attack the decoy caravan, and I had to act."

Bruce's brow creased as he frowned. "Decoy caravan?"

"Dent convinced the acting Commissioner to send a decoy van before you were moved. They tried to take the most direct route to the prison, while your van went a different way."

"How many people died?" Bruce's voice was deeper now, with a hint of the Batman growl behind his words.

I winced, but didn't answer. He and I both knew what happened when the Joker attacked. Blood, mayhem, people and important property blowing up…

"How many, Gordon?" His voice was definitely leaning towards the Batman growl.

"Six." I muttered. Nobody had thought the Joker would react as violently as he had when he found out the truck was a decoy.

Bruce's lips were pressed in a thin line, and the color faded from his cheeks. He had the phone in a death grip, the knuckles on his hand turning white. I thought he was going to crack the phone in half. "Tell me what happened." His voice was stony and tightly controlled.

I licked my suddenly dry lips. "He had a bazooka. Blew up two of our cars before we could even figure out what was happening. The team surrendered, and showed the Joker you weren't in the truck. He got angry. We got there in time to save a few men, but…"

I didn't need to continue. Bruce probably knew of the Joker's sadism even better than I did.

"Did you catch him?"

I shook my head wordlessly. The man was nearly as good as disappearing as Batman.

Bruce slammed his phone down with a snarl that I couldn't hear. He pushed the chair away from the chair with such force it clattered to the ground. The guards and prisoners alike shot him wary glances as he stormed out of the room. I exited the cubicle, handed the promised twenty to the guard escorting me out, and left the jail. Back to the impossible task of hunting down the Joker.

A feeling of dread formed in the pit of my stomach. The police did not have the technology or the drive to take down the Joker. We had rules to follow, family that we worried about. If there was one man who could fight the Joker and win, my best bet was on Batman. He could do things the police could not, or would not. He had no family to protect, no rules to follow besides his own. But he was locked up, and had given the task to me and a police force where corruption still ran rampant.

I glanced back at the barbed wire fence that marked the edge of the prison. _Could I do that? _Could I capture the Joker and bring him to justice? I sighed, squared my shoulders, and headed for my car. Maybe not, but I would do my best.


	4. Late Nights

**A/N:** Hehe, this story just keeps on rolling. It's doing twice as good as stories I've had up since last year. I have one or two more chapters somewhat planned (but not written). After that, I'm running short of ideas. Any suggestions? This chapter does not star Bruce specifically, but they do talk about him. For everyone who asked, this is Dent's POV. I hope you like it. He might seem a bit like a jerk, but hey, this is the man who eventually turned into Two-Face in the movie. Like always, please R&R. Flames, comments, corrections, it's all appreciated. This seriously should be the last chapter for a while, the clock is ticking and my essays are not writing themselves. It would be so cool if they could... Excuse me while I ramble, I got up at 4 a.m. for some strange reason. It's seriously messing with my spelling. Luckily I wrote the chapter last night and now I'm just writing the A/N.

I'd like to thank all the awesome people who've put this story on alert list, favorite list, reviewed it, or just read it. You guys are all awesome :D

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It was eleven, I had a headache, and my stomach was aching with hunger. I glared at the offending organ (or where it should be, at least) as it growled. If I had time I would have stopped and gone home to rest and eat, but time was one of the many things I was short on nowadays.

Ever since Batman (Bruce) had turned himself in at the press conference, my office has been a mess. I personally went through and assigned someone to prosecute his case. That someone had to meet a lot of standards, including having the worst honest conviction record. It was somewhat difficult, as I had to try and decide whether they had lost because a) the judge was being bribed, b) the jury was being bribed, c) the lawyer was being bribed, d) the witnesses were being bribed, e)there wasn't enough evidence, or f) the lawyer was actually truly incompetent.

Once I had assured myself the worst man was on the case, I had rushed over to the Major Crime Unit. Bruce was being held in Gordon's fortress for the time being, and I would offer my services as his lawyer. Money was definitely not a problem, and just because I had been too late to offer myself as a decoy Batman (why did Bruce have to come forward in the space I was allowing for dramatic effect) didn't mean I couldn't still try to help the man.

Batman was the hero Gotham needed, the one who could fight the criminals without worrying about laws and repercussions. It would have worked perfectly, had he not been such an idealistic idiot and turned himself in. The public outcry for Batman's identification had outraged me. The man had just about handed Falcone and hundreds of other criminals over to the police, and the public turned on him the minute a madman with a manic grin comes waltzing into town. If it wasn't for him, my "stunning" arrest of all those mobsters would have been nothing. Lau didn't simply tie himself up and sit on the steps of the MCU.

I had been confident we could have won Bruce's case, if he hadn't refused to accept my help. Whatever streak of idiocy had caused him to turn himself in also told him it would be a grand idea to plead guilty to all counts against him. I would have spun it so the city would see Batman as the hero he was. Witnesses would have flocked to testify about being saved by Batman, and convicted felons didn't make credible witnesses for the prosecution (if the man was smart enough to even think about that).

I was close to whacking him over the head to knock some sense into his head when he had charged me with protecting his city. He threw my words back at me, told me it was my public duty. Was it his public duty to rot in jail for the rest of his life?

I heaved a sigh as my stomach growled again. It was no use trying to get any more work done, if I wrote anything I would just have to erase it tomorrow. Just as I shut down my computer and turned off the lamp at my office (it saved more energy than using the overhead lights) the door to the outer office banged open. I sucked in a gasp and slowly opened the top drawer of my desk. _Had someone finally come to kill me?_

"Harvey?"

I breathed out a silent sigh of relief and released the handle of the gun in my drawer before switching my lamp back on. I opened the door to my private office (Ah, the perks of being on the top of the ladder) to find Gordon standing in the middle of the abandoned room.

"Hello, Gordon."

The light from my lamp threw sharp shadows on his features, but I could still see the weary smile he sent me. We may not be the best of friends, but we had a mutual respect. That respect included me welcoming him at odd hours to sit down and discuss business in my office.

"Late night?"

I snorted. "Same as every night lately. Five hundred criminals sure produce a lot of paperwork. I'm sure you've been keeping busy too."

He sighed and brought up a hand to rub his jaw. From the harsh scratching noise, it sounded like he hadn't shaved in a few days. "The Joker's simply vanished. There's been no report of him from anyone since the truck fiasco."

I winced at the reminder. Six men dead and nothing to show for it. It didn't surprise me that the Joker had escaped and hadn't been spotted since. He'd managed to make himself scarce before. You think someone would call if they saw the maniac strolling down the street, but so far anybody who'd seen him had been silent.

A shiver went down my spine as I thought of the _reasons_ for their silence. The most probable outcome was that anybody who had seen the Joker had promptly ended up dead. Maybe we should base our search on the murder rate.

"Still, there are still more than enough crimes to keep my department busy." Gordon shrugged, and I laughed.

"The world can go to hell but criminals will be criminals, eh Gordon?"

He laughed. It sounded forced, like it came from a man who needed to laugh more. Just like me.

"How many times have I asked you to call me Jim?"

I gave him my political grin. The one with the shiny teeth and winning dimples. "Well, what's one more time, then?"

I never told him why I insisted on calling him Gordon, but I think he knew. I was very vocal about the corruption in his precious unit. It was the one thing I could not stand about the man. If he only made an effort to hire clean cops, and not scum.

Gordon broke the contemplative silence that had descended between us. "I saw Bruce today."

My eyes widened with shock. How stupid could the man be? If Garcia ever got wind of that, he would have Gordon's badge within the hour. "Gordon! You know it-"

He held up a placating hand. "Nobody knew it was me."

I frowned but decided to act like the politician I was and let it go for things I was more interested. "What did he say?"

Gordon just gave me a look. _Are you serious?_

"Alright, what did you tell him and how did he respond?" Apparently, Bruce shared Batman's trait of being as talkative as a brick wall.

I told him what happened with the decoy truck and about Garcia refusing to let him stay at the MCU in a protected cell."

The mention of Garcia's decision made my fingers itch. He had refused to let Bruce stay in protective custody, and had instead put him in a general jail, where all manner of criminals could try for revenge. Public outcry and all that. Garcia was just too afraid to stand up for Batman.

"How did he take the news?"

Gordon shrugged. "As well as anybody who was told the Joker killed six men because he couldn't kill you."

So, not well at all.

"How has prison been treating him?" I didn't come out and say it, but Gordon knew what I mean. _Has anybody tried to hurt him yet?_

"He claims it was just a brawl, but I doubt there's only been one."

I nodded. Batman had probably put away as many criminals as the police force had in the last five years. "Revenge is a powerful motivator."

Gordon nodded, and we fell silent again.

The clock in the corner ticked on in the silence as we awkwardly looked at each other. There was nothing else for us to discuss, and our mutual respect didn't go as far as making idle conversation. I cleared my throat as Gordon tried to swallow a yawn.

"Well, it's late and I for one am off to home." I stood up, and Gordon followed my lead. He shook my hand and headed out of the office as I grabbed my coat and my hat. After waiting a few minutes to make sure Gordon would be long gone, I turned off the light and headed to my car.


	5. Press Conference

**A/N:** I started this as like 5 a.m. so I hope it's okay. This is the much-requested story about what happened at the press conference. I don't have a lot of dialogue in this one, because I can't remember everything they said in the movie. I'm still running short of ideas for POVs, so anything you want to request, add, whatever would be appreciated. Thanks to all my reviewers again, and please R&R and all that :) Oh ya, there is one swear in here. Just a heads up.

At 11:30 a.m. my time, on August 9, I got 1,000 hits! Amazing! You guys are awesome.

* * *

I scowled as the sounds of a busy newsroom assaulted my ears. No caffeine, little sleep, and a story that just scraped by the deadline didn't make a happy reporter. Not to mention I had no breakfast. My monthly budget was stretched thin because I needed more locks on the door and window of my little apartment, so I had to sacrifice a meal.

"Cheryl!"

My editor was standing outside his own personal, quiet, spacious office. Of course I'm jealous.

I stomped over to the door, scowling. "Yeah?" Unless I got paid to be nice, I wouldn't try to hide my bad mood. The editor knew I was a good writer and always made the deadlines (However close-cut). I could name ten people that would get fired before I was even considered for a layoff.

"Dent called a press conference today at 2. Something about Batman. You finish the last story I gave you yet?"

I nodded.

"Then you cover the press conference. I want a hot story." Ugh. Hot story equaled another sleepless night while I sat at my keyboard and tried to think of words to attach to the headline. Thanks to the new locks, I wouldn't be able to splurge and buy some late-night coffee or energy drinks either.

I trudged back to my desk, wrinkling my nose at the smell of cigarettes. Mike smoked like a chimney whenever he could, which meant there was practically a fifteen-foot radius around him that smelled like smoke.

I ignored his cheery "Good morning!" (Stupid morning people) and sat down. I stared at my blank computer screen for a while, then fiddled with my purse. I glanced over to the clock hanging up on the far wall. 8:15. Something like six more hours until the press conference. I sat some more, swiveled around in my chair, and turned on my computer.

Sometimes, I wish I could actually stay in my apartment all day, no matter the extra heating/cooling and electricity costs. To just be able to call in sick, take a day off, pop in for a short nap.

A nap sounded good right now… I glanced around the room. Some old ragged couches sat abandoned in a corner. Some of them were literally being held together with duct tape and staples, but I didn't care. Right now, I could fall asleep even on one of those monstrosities, springs digging into my back and all.

I dragged my tired body over there and crashed onto one hidden in some sort of alcove made by cabinets. I cautiously peered around. No, my editor would not be able to see me from his office door. I set the alarm on my phone for noon, then tucked my phone in my pocket and stretched out and waited for oblivion.

* * *

I hate my phone. It's loud. And annoying. And it wakes me up when I'm stealing naps on the job. _How do you turn off the alarm?!_

Once I finally managed to shut the alarm off by turning my phone on and off, I stretched. Yep, my back was sore from one (or more) of the springs digging into my back. Yep, I felt better anyways. A few hours of sleep will do that to you. In retaliation for waking me up, I ignored the clock on my phone and peered across the room at the wall clock. 12:07. I vaulted to my feet, grabbed my coat and my purse, and headed for the door.

Lunch was a cheap sandwich down at the local grocery store, and gulps of water from the bathroom sink. Yum. I wandered around then newsroom for a while to kill time, until I decided to just head for the conference. I grabbed my scruffy notebook and stubby excuse for a pencil, and headed for my car.

My car was perhaps my only indulgence. It was black and ancient and run down, but my baby had seen me through my entire career as a journalist. The muffler was broken, and I could only start the car half the time of the first try, but I still loved it. Instead of taking cheaper public transportation, I spent my money on gas and drove.

Traffic, numerous swears (both said and directed at me), and one splash from one of the puddles that never seems to evaporate, and I was at the press conference. Other reporters were already milling about, fiddling with notebooks or recorders, and TV crews were checking their equipment.

Curious civilians who had somehow heard of the conference mixed in with the reporters. I ignored the idle chatter and pushed my way through to crowd to grab a seat in the first half of the room. It took a while until everyone settled down.

Harvey Dent strolled onto the stage with a grin on his face. He was as immaculate as ever without a hair out of place, as befitting the 'White Night' of Gotham. I really wanted to fire whichever journalist made up that nickname.

Dent did the whole political take, arguing about giving in to the Joker's demands and all that, but I tuned him out. I didn't care about _why_ Batman takes off his mask. I just wanted to know _when_ so I could be there. A story like that would send my career to better paid heights.

"So be it. Arrest the Batman." Dent finally stopped trying to argue with the insanely curious public, stepped down from the podium, and stood on the stage in front of it.

I sat up straighter in my seat, making sure that I could get full view of the stage. My attention was focused solely on Dent (who was about to speak) when a person in the crowd of people yelled out.

"I am Batman." The voice was mid-range for a man's and well-spoken. It was not the voice of someone who had grown up on the streets of Gotham, but rather an accent that spoke of high class and money.

Everyone's heads turned towards the man at the same time, like there was some silent signal. Someone's head is blocking my way (Of course it's a jerk from Gotham Times) and I crane my neck to get a look at the man that everyone had started murmuring about. If I just tilt my head a little to the right and duck down the slightest _and_ – holy crap.

Bruce Wayne.

I think my jaw might have literally dropped, but I was a little too shocked to notice. The _Prince of Gotham_ (another stupid nickname) was Batman? On the stage, Dent looked crushed. I would be too, if the man I had just argued to save was the world's most pompous arrogant airhead.

The murmuring had grown in volume, until it rose to a dull roar. Reporters started shouting out questions, but Wayne just ignored them. He strode towards the stage, where two policemen flanked Dent. One already had handcuffs out and ready.

The dull roar grew until it reached epic proportions. Nobody could believe it. _Bruce Wayne!_ Some people were crowding around him for pictures or to try and shout out a question, while others practically dashed from the room. This was definitely a story that would jumpstart someone's career.

I myself was standing on my chair, watching the events from a broader perspective. For all the jostling and pushing the journalists and reporters were dishing out among themselves, nobody touched Wayne. The man seemed to have a five-foot bubble around him.

Wayne was stony-faced as the officers put him in handcuffs and led him away. When I walked out (going at a dignified pace and _not_ running like everyone else) Dent was still standing there gobsmacked. Wouldn't that be a great picture under the headline. Poor guy, probably though Batman would be someone worthy of the title.

A story was churning through my head, headlines squabbling for my attention. _Batman Revealed: Who Is the Caped Crusader?_ Or _Billionaire Bruce Wayne Arrested!_ Maybe _Batman and Bruce Wayne; What Do They Have In Common?_

This news would sell papers for months! Visions of paychecks and breakfast swam in my head, and I squealed out of the parking lot in my little car. There was a story to be written, and an editor that would be hovering over my shoulder to until I finished it.


	6. Hospital

**A/N:** When I started writing this chapter, I didn't exactly plan it ending the way it does. I literally wrote it, then looked back and was like _what!? _Anyways, thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter, and to all you readers out there. I didn't think this story would have gotten this far this fast if it hadn't been for all of you. Just some mid-story gratefulness. And wow, I'm in a C2! Thanks RedNex :) Please R&R, I'm sure you know the drill by now ;)

* * *

I took a deep breath of the hospital air, and smiled. While some people thought that hospitals smelled odd, I found it comforting. In any hospital you visited, there was still the smell of antiseptics and sterilizing agents permeating the air. It was my element, wherever I went.

My moment of peaceful reflection helped me to collect my frazzled nerves and regain some energy. I grabbed the next chart on the table and headed towards the examination room on the far right.

Usually, my job could be a little boring and tedious since the only people I saw were either injured from fighting or so sick they were nearly comatose. The only way you got to see a nurse when you had a normal sickness and weren't running the risk of dying was if you knew the right people, or had a very convincing bribe.

Fights typically only broke out a few times per week, and the injuries could be dealt with quickly and easily. There were many repeat-offenders in jail, and they knew that fighting was only a way to blow off steam or express a dislike of someone. Serious injuries were few and far between. And while colds and the flu were common enough in the jail, most patients weren't sick enough to warrant a nurse.

All that had changed two days ago, when Bruce Wayne had come to jail. It was around dinner time yesterday when a literal drove of patients had streamed in. Seven men, all bloodied and unconscious. They had broken limbs, concussions, fractures, deep bruises, and all sorts of other injuries. I had thought they had been beaten up by a larger gang, until I heard the guards talking.

"Did you see him?" One man gushed. "He beat seven people – _with his bare hands!"_ The guard shook his head admiringly. I had to forcefully keep my jaw clenched to keep my mouth from brushing the ground. _One man_ had done all that damage? "Not even a scratch on him." Ok, that had to be an exaggeration. I had seen the results of fight, and nobody could engage seven men and not be injured.

A second guard interrupted his younger co-worker's raving, cutting off my stream of information. "Better watch you talk around here, boy. Batman's made a lot of enemies that wouldn't like you going around sprouting out praise." The older guard I knew to be on the payroll of a mob family, though I wasn't sure which one. He probably was one of those enemies who didn't like the young man praising Batman.

I swallowed as I thought back to the prisoners I had treated. The _Batman_ had beaten them up. How many people had he left for the police? How many had he mangled like that? I had never liked the Batman, since my brother and about half my friends worked on the wrong side of the law, but I had never thought of him as a vicious vigilante. However unorthadox his methods, I had always considered him to just be another force working against crime. Now, having seen his handiwork first-hand, I knew he couldn't be doing anything good for the city. Nobody could beat up men so badly and still claim they did something right.

* * *

My thoughts had been proven the next day, during breakfast. (Why was it always during meals when people attacked each other?)

It was practically a parade of unconscious men being carted in by guards. Although we had ten examination rooms (usually more than enough), some men still had to wait out in the hall. Again, the prisoners looked as if they had been beaten up by a gang. I casually questioned one of the guards as he helped me cart a patient into the recently vacated examination room. He confirmed my suspicions – Batman had struck again.

The examination room I was currently in held three people – two guards and my patient. I snagged an injury report (mandatory for recording purposes but almost never used) and settled in my swivel chair without even looking at my patient. After so many years of working in the prison, I knew the routine by heart. Besides, he was probably unconscious like all of the other victims of Batman.

"Name?" I asked the guards

"Bruce Wayne." My first thought was that wasn't the voice of a guard. It was smooth and cultured, higher than that of one of the hulking security guards. Then the statement hit me.

_Bruce Wayne. The Batman. _I whirled around in my chair, thumping my knee against the edge of the desk. Sure enough, Wayne was sitting on the table, casually propped up against the wall. Other than a split lip and the beginning of a bruise on his face, he seemed fine.

A frown twisted my features. "He looks fine, why did you bring him to me?"

The guards, used to me berating them for not handling patients carefully enough, did a double take. They had never heard me say a patient _didn't_ need medical attention before. The one on the right – Paul? I think that's his name – recovered first.

"Uh, he has a, uh, cut." The hand that wasn't nervously clutching his riot stick gestured to his shoulder. After stammering something that possibly was "he needs stitches," he fell silent. Ok, so some security guards weren't the brightest of the bunch. It's not like Batman would try to escape prison after turning himself in. He was supposed to be working for _justice_, after all.

I sent a disapproving stare at my patient before rummaging through the cabinet for a needle. He was watching Paul's antics with amusement, if the quirked lips meant anything. Normally, it wouldn't have bothered me since convicts are not a caring lot, but something about Wayne just made me want to slap him. I glared at the protective packet that held my needle before ripping it open with great force and turning back towards Wayne.

"Where were you cut?"

Wayne sat up and turned sideways on the table. "My shoulder."

Sure enough, a long gash ran across his shoulder. It started mere centimeters from the base of his neck and went across his shoulder blade diagonally, ending just under his armpit. Blood was steadily dripping down, and I mentally cursed the guards. Haven't they heard of gauze? I bit my tongue to keep from reprimanding them. This man deserved what he got, beating up all those men.

Armed with a needle and sanitized thread, I approached Wayne. The guards shifted nervously, increasing my outrage at Batman. If he was a force for good, why was everyone so scared of him?

I grabbed some small scissors and cut around the wound, dumping the loose fabric on the table. I threaded the needle and began to stitch the cut closed. I must have poked the needle in harder than I had intended, because Wayne grunted with pain before pursing his lips closed. I was too angry to care, and besides, nurses were rough with their patients all the time here. What did it matter if I started too? It was just one man, anyway.

I ignored Wayne's grimaces and continued with my work. Once done, I tied off the string and cut the rest off. I tossed the needle into the garbage and walked over to the supply cabinet. The gauze was supposed to be on the middle shelf right in front, but with so many patients it was all used up and there had been no time to restock. There should be some more gauze on the bottom cabinet, though…

After rummaging through all the excess materials stored on that shelf, I finally located the extra gauze. I knew stocking up would be a good idea some day. I swiped the tape and antiseptic cream from the counter and turned around, only to see my patient messing around.

His upper body was twisted around, and his neck was craning for a look at his wounded shoulder. Someone obviously never told him it was impossible to see your back, no matter what position you tried.

"Stop moving," I snapped at him. "You're going to irritate that shoulder." Normal people would have stopped simply because of the pain, but not the Batman. _He _simply pursed his lips and tried to see his injury anyway. I slathered the cut in the antiseptic lotion and secured the gauze in place, lips turned down in a frown the entire time.

As soon as the last piece of tape was secured, I strode away from Wayne with the pretense of replacing the supplies back where they belonged. One never knew what a man who beat up criminals all night would do. Fear and anger simmered togethr as I thought of him going after my brother, while he went around and collected protection fees for the mob.

Batman would attack from behind, cruelly beating him to unconsciousness before trussing him up and leaving him defenseless on the streets. Hopefully the police would arrive before someone came upon his prone body and decided to rob him senseless. Then the man he reported to would demand the money from the protection fees, which my brother would not have. He would have to pay from his own wallet, which was too thin to even afford decent clothes for his son. And if he couldn't pay, well he wouldn't miss a finger or two.

I forcefully dragged my mind away from the fearsome thoughts, and placed the supplies in their proper place. I spoke without facing Wayne."I'm done with him. Make sure he comes back in a few days." Once I had told the guards what to do with Batman, I stormed out of the room and towards the sanctuary of the break room.

I raided the fridge, wishing there was something stronger than pop in there. The brief thought of asking a security guard for some beer flitted through my head, but I dismissed it - I wouldn't know the right one to ask. I flopped on the couch, cradling a bottle of water in my hands. A headache had snuck up on me, and now it was pounding in my skull. I threw my head back with a groan, and closed my eyes. _What a day._

Of course, with the Batman still in residence, it was likely to become a lot busier in the hospital. The image of my brother lying on an examination table, beaten like one of the Batman's filled my head again. I thought back to Wayne, sitting on the table with a grin on his face, and I felt a surge of anger. Next time, I vowed, Wayne would not have such a pleasant visit.

I flipped through a mental dictionary of poisons, thinking about which ones I could use to contaminate one of Wayne's injuries (He was bound to get more, fighting so often). It would have to be non-lethal, as to not draw attention. Preferably something painful, and one that didn't inflame the area where it was applied. I sat there in the staff room, plotting with a small smile on my face. _Next time…_


	7. Party

**A/N:** Wow, over 2,000 hits! Amazing! People are telling me I'm treating Bruce very unfairly, and I really am. But remember, the people don't have all the facts and it really is their opinion from the stuff they've heard, which isn't complete. Like my nurse from the next chapter never heard about how the brawls started. She just assumed Bruce had attacked first, since she's biased against him. Don't worry, some nicer people should be appearing soon. :) This chapter has mixed opinions on Batman, and it is the requested Gotham socialite POV. I don't really like my character for this chapter, but she is supposed to be mean and shallow and all that. There are a lot more people in this scene than what I'm used to writing, so tell me if I need to go back and make anything clearer. Please R&R, reviews make me happy and they tell me what direction you guys would like the story to go. Input is nice :D

* * *

I sipped delicately at the glass of champagne, just barely wetting my lips. They had been cheap on drinks, and it was a second-rate vintage. Unfortunately, I didn't know until I had already snagged a glass from a wandering waiter. For now, I sat and pretended to drink while I waited for a waiter to come around again. I should have a chat with whoever organized this party. They ought to know better than to serve second-string champagne, and the service was terrible.

Amber and Michelle were giggling about something or other, but I was too occupied gazing across the room to join in their conversation. Peter was standing near the orchestra, conversing with some blonde girl who kept on inching closer and closer to him. My eyes narrowed. How dare she! Everyone knew that _I_ had my sights set on the son of Gotham city's plastic tycoon. Not only was he rich and of an acceptable status, he was handsome too. Not Bruce Wayne handsome, but then again he had turned out to be that crazy man who dressed up like a bat.

I sighed and swirled the champagne around in the glass. One could never tell the strange secrets Gotham's elite hid. It was even rumored that Mark had an affair with one of his butlers! I shuddered at the indecency of having an affair with someone of a lower class. If he was going to be gay, he could at least be decent about it and date someone appropriate.

I was about to excuse myself from the table in order to reclaim my future husband from the clutches of that woman, when something they said caught my attention.

"-Wayne and that Batman scandal?"

The Batman scandal, as we have come to call it, was a popular conversation. It popped up at nearly every party since the news broke. Peter could wait, I decided. I know he didn't much like blondes, and this conversation was just getting interesting. Michelle's boy-toy (Some model from California this time) was giving his opinion.

"I think that Wayne had the right idea." He nodded, as if to confirm the thought. "Gotham City has the highest crime rate in the world, but thanks to the Batman it dropped significantly." Maybe the boy-toy wasn't as brainless as he first appeared. He certainly knew a lot more about current events than the last one.

"By running around dressed like a bat when any _normal_ person would be asleep?" Amber threw her head back indignatly. She and I shared the same opinion, at least on this topic. "It's all because of him the Joker even came to this town!"

A shiver went around the table at the mention of Gotham's menace. Even though he had been strangely inactive since the Batman was put in jail, people were terrified he would strike again. Some insisted that now the Joker had what he wanted, he would leave Gotham, but the majority felt that the Joker wasn't finished with the city yet.

Boy-toy scoffed. "The Joker's gone. Nobody's heard of him since he attacked that SWAT truck." The news of six men being slaughtered by the Joker had pushed even the story of Batman's identity from the front page. People had clamored in outrage that the Joker broke his word, but he of course was nowhere to be found.

"I'm not going to believe he's dead until there's a picture of his corpse on the front page." I shuddered at Amber's gruesome declaration. At times like these, one could tell she hadn't been born a socialite.

"Really, Amber. So graphic." Amber glared at me, but I simply shot her a too-sweet smile. Some of us actually have class.

Michelle sighed theatrically, cutting short the silent battle. "I liked Bruce, though. Such a sweetheart." She shook her head. "What a _shame_ he's in jail."

Of course Michelle thought it was a shame. For an entire month, she had very nearly attached herself to Bruce's arm at social functions. The tabloids had been speculating about the possibility of her being the future Mrs. Wayne. Maybe that was the reason Bruce had turned himself in. I had to force down a smile at that thought. Yes, Michelle was the kind of person who would drive someone to being arrested. So _clingy._

I chanced a quick glance to where Peter and the blonde stood. She playfully swatted his arm, but he just smiled and took a step backward. Good. That ought to show her he wasn't interested. I returned my attention to the table.

Time to add my opinion to the mix. "I always thought there was something strange about him." I had known it since I laid eyes on him. Too happy, too charming, too handsome, too overdone. I took another tiny sip of champagne, for appearences. Really, where was the waiter?

Amber nodded in agreement.

"What ever happened to that butler of his? Adam?" Michelle frowned as she tried to remember the man's name. As if it mattered.

I shrugged. "Who cares? He hasn't been seen in Gotham since before Bruce turned himself in. I personally think he swiped as much money as he could and left the country."

Amber shook his head. "Can you imagine living with the Batman? I'm surprised he didn't figure it out."

Michelle cast a disdainful look at Amber. "It's obvious he was in on the whole plot. He's known Bruce his whole life. He even inherited the Wayne fortune when Bruce was declared dead."

Ah, that had been a scandal back in the day. Who ever heard of leaving the family fortune to the butler? The Waynes had always been an odd bunch. Perhaps that's why Bruce had gone so strange.

"If the butler didn't know where Bruce was for seven years, they obviously weren't that close. If _I_ was a masked vigilante, I wouldn't tell _my_ worker what I did after hours." Ha, as if Amber would do something as dramatic as that. She was the kind of woman who cried at paper cuts and screamed at spiders.

"So you think Adam didn't notice his employer simply disappeared all night?"

"Well, sure he might have noticed. He might have even questioned Bruce about it. But it doesn't mean that Bruce would have had to _tell_ the butler where he went."

I rolled my eyes as Amber and Michelle got into a debate about the butler. Boy-toy seemed content to simply sit there, so I stood up with a polite smile. "Oh, excuse me. I have very important matters to discuss with Peter…" I swept away, ignoring Amber's knowing look. She could smell relationships like a shark scenting blood.

Peter and the blonde had disappeared, and I looked in vain for them. Finally, one old woman (someone's grandma, I'm sure) put a consoling hand on my arm. "I saw them leave about half an hour ago, dearie." The sad look, along with the hand on my arm, told the reason for their departure.

My blood boiled. _How dare she!_ I clenched the hand that was not wrapped around my glass of champagne. It was obvious that I was interested in Peter, but that snake had gone and taken him! I stalked away, not even bothering to say thank you to the woman.

I spied a waiter weaving his way through the crowd, and made a beeline for him. There was someone I could take my irritation out on. I thumped my glass of champagne on the plate he held so hard the liquid went sloshing out.

"This champagne is absolutely repulsive! I don't know why you thought it would be acceptable to serve this swill." I hissed. The man looked taken aback. "And the service is absolutely terrible! I was waiting for one of you waiter to come to my table for a good long while. This party is a disgrace." I whirled on my high heels and stalked out of the door.

The man in charge of the coat rack got a good earful of insults, as well as the doorman. My driver was very sympathetic, and let me rant the entire time back to my mansion. When he pulled into the driveway, I was sufficiently calmer. I exited the car gracefully, all signs of anger well-hidden.

My maid drew up a hot bath, and I was able to relax in the steam and calming scents of bath salt. I reflected on my actions at the party, and let out a groan. They would all be talking about my loss of composure. The only thing I could do was smile while they sent subtle jabs at me, and hope that something else grabbed their attention soon enough. Pity the Joker hasn't been seen. He had a knack for capturing the attention of Gotham.


	8. Newsroom

**A/N: **First of all, I'm really sorry about not getting this chapter up. I had a busy couple of days, and the Joker makes an appearence. I don't think I've ever appreciated how insanely difficult it is to write the Joker. Seriously, he only has a few lines and I don't think I did it very well. So I have realized a very important thing - The Joker will most likely not have his own chapter, because it would take an insanely large amount of time and it would probably turn out terrible. And wow, I've actually decided to add a plot to this story! Next chapter should be from the POV of a prisoner. As always, please R&R or tell me if I have some sort of error in my writing. :) I don't really know a lot about the television industry, so if you know anything about it and I screw something up terribly, please tell me.

Mike Engel was a canon character, but I don't think they gave us anything about them, so I guess you could say he's more like an OC with a canon name. Alright, sorry about this really long Author's Note, and on with the story!

* * *

GCN headquarters was bustling with the pre-show setup. People hurried past each other, each intent on doing a last-minute check before we aired. I weaved my way through the mess with the ease of one that's been through the drill a thousand times.

Mike was not in his room or familiarizing himself with the topics to be covered today, so I checked the makeup room. Sure enough, he was fidgeting and chatting a mile a minute as a specialist made some last-minute fixes to his makeup.

"Hey Mike!" I shouted.

He paused in his energetic telling of his daughter's role in the school play, and smiled at my reflection in the mirror. The makeup artist looked relieved.

"We're on in ten!"

Mike brought his watch up to eye level. "Oh, sh- gotta go, sorry!" He nearly catapulted out of the seat, but I called him back before he could get out of the door.

"Forget something?"

"No, why-"

I held up his suit jacket. He grinned at me, embarrassed. "Thanks"

He shrugged it on, and we both headed for the set. "So, who is this guy I'm supposed to be interviewing again?" Mike was never one for details.

I rolled my eyes. "Coleman Reese." I had seen the man when they were prepping him, and I couldn't think of anyone else more greedy and narcissistic. He was practically putting on airs, claiming he knew who the Batman was before the press conference.

"He worked for Wayne Industries."

"Aw, _another_ one? It's just been news about the Batman for the last week!"

I shrugged. "It's kind of a big deal."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know." We walked through the open doorway and said our goodbyes. Mike went to his seat, and I went to skulk in a corner until I was needed again.

"Going live in five, four, three-" The camera man held up two fingers, then one, and pointed at the anchors. The theme song started, and the newsmen shuffled their papers, smiling at the camera. The paper shuffling always confused me.

* * *

Reese's interview came near the end of the program. He swaggered out, resembling an overstuffed peacock rather than a competent auditor. Mike's smile, which had been somewhat genuine, shrank as the interview went on.

"Yes, of course I knew who the Batman was. He was using company money to fund his vigilante activities, and covering it up rather sloppily if I do say so. When I discovered this, I of course demanded he turn himself in." Oh God, Reese was literally puffing up.

Mike's wasn't even trying to smile now. He simply stared at Reese, and glared. He considered Batman to be an idol, a hero who deserved to be thanked and not put behind bars. Hearing Reese paint him as a cruel boss and accusing him of stealing funds made his temper rise.

"So, out of the goodness of your own heart, you simply asked Mr. Wayne to turn himself in? Just like that?" Uh-oh. Mike wasn't following the prompt board.

Reese tried to nod while keeping his chin high in the air. The awkward head-bob that he did just added to the peacock look.

"Are you sure you didn't ask him for something? Maybe a little incentive to keep your mouth shut?"

Reese's eyes widened with shock, and his mouth formed a little 'o' shape. He looked completely gobsmacked, and I snickered. I thought people only reacted like that in the movies. "Well, I would _never_ – how dare y- course not – its prepost- That's not true!"

I shook my head. Mike Engel strikes again, with the uncanny ability to guess people's darkest secrets. He was leaning towards Reese now, grinning like a shark.

"Oh, you did? How much did you want? Five million? Ten? Tell us, Mr. Reese, exactly how much you tried to get from blackmailing the Batman."

Reese deflated like a balloon and crossed his arms. "I didn't blackmail him." Now he sounded like a petulant child.

"Don't lie to us, Mr. Reese." Mike glanced at the prompt screen, and smiled. "Why don't we let our viewers call in, and give us their opinions on Mr. Reese's behavior."

I looked at the prompt screen. Mike was supposed to have invited people to call and share their opinions on Batman, but nobody was complaining. Reese trying to blackmail Batman was much more interesting to chat about.

It was only a few seconds before the phone started ringing. Mike picked it up and switched it to speakerphone.

"You know," the caller said with a rush of noise that had to have been a sigh, "I uh-I had a _vision_ of a world without _Bat_man." The voice on the other end of the phone was high but unmistakably male.

"The mob ground out a little _profit_ and the police tried to shut them down block… by… block." The voice clicked his tongue every time at the end of block. "And it was _so_ boring" He ended in a low growl, then started to giggle. It was a strange falsetto sound that sent chills down my spine. _It wasn't… _I gaped at the phone in horror, but I was too afraid to run forward and hang it up.

"I've decided that uh- I don't really _like_ Gotham without _Bat_man." There it was again, that strange little emphasis on the beginning of Batman. "Gotham is so predictable without him!" His voice rose, and the tone was like one telling a great joke.

"I want Bruce Wayne freed and uh- this Coleman Reese dead in sixty minutes or else I blow up a hospital." The Joker's voice was happy as he spoke, as if he wasn't basically holding a hospital ransom and ordering someone killed. "I don't like _squealers._"

For the first time, the Joker sounded like the murdering psychopath he was. His voice dropped down, changing into a gravelly rasp. He sounded like someone who had been smoking for all their lives.

Reese's eyes widened and he stared at the phone in fear. For the first time, I felt sorry for him. There were people in Gotham who would do what the Joker demanded, if only to try and placate him before he blew something important up. Like, say, a hospital.

The Joker wheezed, and at first I thought he was coughing. The wheezing turned into high pitched hysterical laughter, before he slammed down the phone.

The dial tone sounded, and for a minute everyone in the studio just stood in a dazed stupor. Mike was the first to move. He tore the tiny microphone out of his ear and stood up, sending the chair clattering behind him. The noise spurred everyone into moving again, and in less than a second a panicked babble filled the room.

Reese was sitting there, practically hyperventilating. Mike grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the door, shouting instructions all the way. "I want you to call everyone- the Commissioner, Gordon, Dent, whoever! We are getting him out of this building!"

I couldn't tell if Mike wanted Reese gone because a lot of people were going to storm the building and no doubt ruin expensive equipment while trying to find him, or if he wanted Reese to be safe in a more secure location.

When Mike and Reese disappeared through the doorway, I finally forced myself into action. I scurried through the crowd, looking for Mike. He could always use help, and I honestly had no idea what to do otherwise. Following him was a lot better than joining the panicked mob, anyway.


	9. Cellmate

**A/N:** Here's the next chapter, from the POV of Bruce's cellmate. Poor guy. This is my longest chapter yet, and I hope you enjoy it. Next chapter is going to be from Rachel's POV. I left a little cliffie at the end, but don't worry you'll find out what happens. It probably looks kinda idiotic now, but hopefully my explanation will make it seem more realistic. And wow, over 5,000 hits! Seriously amazing. Please R/R :) I'd like to thank DestinedJedi87 for some really awesome ideas about where to take the story. I tried to e-mail you, but it didn't work :( so just know that I'm using some of your ideas for the plot :D I'll mention them when they appear.

Yes, Phelps got 8 for 8! He is proof that mermen exist :) Seriously, it's kinda insane how fast he is. Anyway, on with the story.

* * *

It was right after lunch when he walked into my cell. Normally, we would all be lounging around in the rec room or outside, but today we had been herded back into our cells. Someone new was coming, the guards told us. Someone important. Rumor had it that it was Batman.

I could still remember when the news had come out. First, it was incredulous silence. Then, someone who hadn't been caught by Batman snorted with laughter.

"You got pinched by _Bruce Wayne_?"

One of the more macho guys who Batman had put away decided he didn't like being called a wimp. The noise of a fistfight soon drowned out the reporter's voice, and while the tv was quickly forgotten, the news was not.

The entire jail was abuzz. The only topic on people's minds was the Batman. At first, it had been excited. Who would have thought Batman would turn out to be Wayne? Some people laughed at how off the mark they had been when speculating about Batman's identity (a popular pastime for some) while others fumed at the thought of being beat by such a man.

The light banter had faded when everyone was herded into their cells. We knew the Batman had been arrested, but nobody thought they would lock him up with the very criminals he battled against. The talk became more serious, speculating about whether Wayne was really coming to this jail and what people would do if he did.

From my sprawled-out position on the top bunk of my cell, I could hear the voice of Tim, five cells away. "I'll tell you this- If I ever see Wayne, he's a dead man." Tim was particularly bitter about Batman, and wasn't planning to be subtle about it. "I'll bash his pretty little face in." I heard faint pops as he cracked his knuckles. Tim was the epitome of a thug. Violent, strong, and not an independent thinker. His crew was all the same, and I felt sorry for Wayne. If he came here, he'd have a whole boatload of trouble.

A guard patrolling down the hall stopped and whacked the bars of my cell with his riot stick. They literally rattled cages here. "Hope you're enjoying your last day here." The guard sneered at me. I propped myself up on my elbow, covering a wince as the bed springs dug into my skin. "Why?"

The sneer morphed into a smug grin. "'Cuz the Batman, that's why."

An uneasy feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach. I knew it was a bad idea to get on the wrong side of the guards. "What are you talking about?"

The man simply laughed and walked away. Across the hallway, Flint shook his head. "Damn guards. They only give you enough news to make you start shakin' in your boots."

Flint was one of the friendlier inmates. I had no idea what real name was or what he was in for. He had just been there when I arrived, and hadn't left since. He stayed under the radar, one of the shuffling masses of inmates. I gave him a wry smile. "They seem to have it down to an art."

Bane laughed. It was soft, unlike the loud, braying laughter most of the inmates had. He opened his mouth to say something else, but an ominous silence settled in at the end of the hallway. It quickly spread down the cellblock, and all that could be heard was the thud of boots.

I hopped off my bed and pressed my face against the bars of my cell, trying to get a look at what was happening. What was going on down there? The footsteps got closer, and my ears detected a softer sound underneath. It was the shuffling of a pair of prison-issue slippers.

_Hope you're enjoying your last day_

_'cuz the Batman._

The blood drained from my face as I remembered the guard's words. There were generally two prisoners to a cell, but my cellmate had been released a week ago and I hadn't gotten another one. _Until now._

I went back to my bunk and sat down, no longer interested in what was happening outside my cell. I closed my eyes. _If I can't see you, you can't see me._ I tried to block out the footsteps, but they got louder and louder. Soon, they were in front of my cell. _Go away…_ The footsteps paused, to be replaced by the clinking of keys. I struggled to keep my breathing even.

The guard was right, I was going to die. Why had I pissed off that guard? Why did they have to choose _me_ as the Batman's cellmate?

I kept my eyes closed as my new cellmate (please, oh please, oh please, don't let it be Wayne) shuffled in. I didn't open them as the door clanged shut and the guards walked away, sniggering with barely contained glee at my impending doom.

My cellmate didn't move, and finally I opened my eyes. Bruce Wayne stood in my cell, dressed in the painfully bright orange prison garb. What little hope I was harboring that it wasn't Wayne who was being transferred immediately evaporated.

I stared at him, and he stared back. "Uh, so…" Better to try and make an effort to save my neck. "I'm uh, your room- I mean uh, cellmate" God, it was like college all over again. Whenever people asked me why I had flunked out, I had always told them it was because I had a roommate.

Wayne walked over to the chair bolted to the floor and tilted his head to look up at me. He was sitting sideways, one arm propped up on the back of the chair. "Bruce Wayne," he drawled. "And you are?"

I swallowed nervously. "Uh, John – Jonathon." Wayne is smirking at my bumbling attempts to speak. It was worse than college. I cleared my throat and rolled over, facing away from Wayne. Better to not talk at all.

The rest of that day was spent in awkward silence. The funny thing was, I had expected Batman to be a little more… intimidating. And a lot more hostile. He had just seemed like another inmate.

* * *

A week later, and I knew exactly how intimidating and hostile the Batman could be. He could take on a mob of guys by himself and still end up the winner. If I had been nervous before, it wasn't anything like now.

I practically tiptoed around the cell, doing everything in my power to avoid eye contact. Other than the introduction the first day, we had barely spoken. My only reprieve was during the afternoon, when we were allowed out of our cells. I sat with Flint in the rec room, idly chatting about this or that.

Nobody had given me any trouble yet, but I should have know it wouldn't last. William, or Yam to his friends (I have no idea why), stalked over to where Flint and I were sitting. I stood up warily as he approached – it was better to be poised for fight of flight than sitting down, where you make an easy target.

"You." He growled, as if I wasn't already watching him approach. "You're the Batman's cellmate."

My mouth went dry. So the day had finally come. "Yeah, so?" My tough-boy act (second nature to anybody who wants to survive in Gotham) was firmly in place.

"So, I gotta problem with that."

"And I gotta problem with your brain being missing. But I don't make a big deal out of that, do I?" Oh God, my mouth went running without my brain again. First the guard, now this guy. I really needed to fix my act if I didn't want to die anytime soon. While my tongue might be sharp, my fighting skills were not.

William's face turned an interesting puce color, and his hands curled into fists. He wasn't exceedingly tall or muscular, but he was quick and strong. _I'm so dead_. I tried to back up, but he just took a step forward. I slid one foot back slightly, and dropped my chin. It's not a good idea to fight when you leave your neck exposed. One good hit, and you're done for.

When a fist went flying at my head, I managed to duck out of the way. William drew back his fist to try and hit again, and went spinning away with a shocked yell. Wayne was standing where William once was, looking mildly pissed. When had he gotten there?

"You!" Willaim growled. Apparently, that was his standard greeting to people he didn't like.

Wayne raised an eyebrow, the angry look sliding off his face to reveal one of a bored rich kid. "Me."

William tried to get up, but quickly stopped when Wayne shot him a glare. After his demonstrations on the first and second day, people stopped trying to attack him. We Gothamites had a very good survival sense. Everyone knew that taking on the Batman by themselves would equal a long-term stay in the prison hospital.

Using those survival skills that made William stay where he was, I decided to use the distraction to quickly hurry away to another corner of the room. I had just taken a step when someone shouted for silence, diffusing the confrontation between Wayne and William, and turning everyone's attention to the television.

Mike Engel and a man I didn't recognize were sitting across from each other, but they were both staring at the phone. With the rec room now silent, the voice of whoever was on the end of the line could be heard through the entire room.

"Gotham is so predictable without him!" The voice was exclaiming. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Wayne's face go deathly pale. "I want Bruce Wayne freed and uh- this Coleman Reese dead in sixty minutes or else I blow up a hospital. I don't like _squealers._"

The voice had a nagging familiarity, like I had heard it before. I racked my brains trying to figure out who it would be (my first thought went to my grandpa, but that was quickly eliminated as he didn't tend to call news stations and threaten people) but I couldn't figure out who it was. Then the wheezing laughter came, and recognition struck like a bolt of lightning. _The Joker._ We had all watched the Joker terrorize Gotham from the tv, and his laughter had been seared in our brains since seeing the homemade video released by the press of him and the Batman impersonator

Everyone else seemed to realize who it was at the same time I did, and we turned to look at Wayne. He was glaring at the tv, and I realized that I had never seen him _really_ glare before. His mouth was twisted down in a silent snarl, and his eyes smouldered from narrowed lids. The sickly pale color of his skin only emphasized the dark circles around his eyes from lack of sleep. He glared at the tv for a second more, before stalking towards the door. He moved fluidly, silently, eyes fixed on the door in front of him. Something glinted in the palm of his clenched right hand, and his left fist twitched, as if Wayne desperately wanted to hit something.

The guards let him go, clutching their riot sticks and watching him with wary eyes. The inmates parted before him, creating something like a walkway. Although some may have despised Batman, they hated the Joker even more. Batman had rules, while the Joker simply slaughtered everyone within a ten-yard radius. He killed mobsters, thugs, police, innocents, and whoever else he felt like. We all would rather had Batman running wild on the street than the Joker.


	10. Politics

**A/N:** Yay, I finally got this chapter done. It just didn't want to get written. But my plot bunnies came back after a brief Harry Potter relapse, and are content to write Batman again. :) Rachel was not a fun character to write, so tell me if I completely destroyed the character... And the updates will probably slow down, since I'm starting school on Monday. I also have volleyball, and an undetermined amount of homework that will take up my time. Luckily, I only have three or four chapters left so I should hopefully finish it by the end of September. Next chapter is Alfred. Please R/R and all that, you know what to do by now :)

* * *

I was in the office with Harvey when the Joker's latest threat came in. Harvey read the news, and practically exploded with joy. "I never thought I'd see the day, but the Joker's done something good for once."

I gave him an incredulous look. "He's threatening to blow up a hospital!"

He waved a hand, as if it was of no consequence. "Well, yes, but this is what I've been looking for! With this, Garcia won't object to freeing Bruce!"

I ground my teeth in annoyance. Before the Press Conference, Harvey had looked at Bruce with disdain, bemoaning the fact that 'Wayne' didn't use any of his money to help Gotham. Now it was Bruce this, Bruce that, how can we free Bruce?

Harvey grabbed his coat and his jacket and handed me mine, something that always made me feel appreciated for some reason. "Come on, we have to see Garcia right now, before he comes up with some sort of excuse." He swiped a paper from his desk that had been sitting there for a week, completely filled out except for the spot where a signature was required.

The Mayor's office is only a block away, so we simply walked over there. Well, Harvey walked. I was practically jogging to keep up with his long strides. "The people will be clamoring for Bruce to be released. If Garcia doesn't do anything, then he's facing a serious political backlash, and we all know how he handles _those_. He'll be forced to do it, and Batman can be back on the streets where he belongs!"

_Back where he belongs…_ My mind went back to the letter I had given Alfred, before Bruce had turned himself in. The way Harvey raved about Batman, it made me realize he would never just be Bruce again. I could wait for a lifetime for him to hang up his mask, but he never could. Gotham needed him too much. It was part of who Bruce was, a part that I couldn't stand. I hated the intimidating masked vigilante, and what he did to Bruce.

When I had given the letter to Alfred, I had felt relieved. No more trying to hold two men at arms length while I battled over my feelings. There was just Harvey now. Except how could I just forget about Bruce when that was all Harvey talked about these days?

"-telling you, this is it!" Harvey grabbed my hand, looking excited. I gave him a gently teasing smile and squeezed his hand.

"Harvey, you're repeating yourself."

He grinned. "I know, but this is the chance we've been looking for. Even Garcia can't worm his way out of this."

The slight crease between Harvey's eyes and the way he pushed his bottom lip up showed me his anger. He didn't like Garcia's tentative moves, the complacency with the public. It was because of his unwillingness to take drastic action that had let Gotham be ruled by the mob for so long. I weaved my way around the constant stream of foot traffic, trying to keep up with the now-silent Harvey. Bruce would have made sure I was right by his side, but Harvey simply surged forward, clutching the paper in an iron grip.

He suddenly cut across the sidewalk, ending up at the door of the building. "Come on, Rachel. We'll free your friend in no time." I covered a wince and followed Harvey into the building. Bruce would hate me when Alfred gave him the letter. I could only hope that Alfred gave it to him at the right time. The friendly old butler and Bruce's surrogate father just seemed to know those things.

Harvey strolled right into the Mayor's office, one hand resting on my lower back. He was known well-enough around here, and Garcia's secretary greeted him with a curt nod and went back to her work as we entered.

When we walked into the office, Garcia was on the phone, impatiently tapping his fingers. He glanced up at the sound of our footsteps, and promptly slammed the device down. "Harvey, I've been trying to get in touch with you!" Was it just me, or was the look that flashed across Garcia's face one of relief?

Harvey smiled. "Well, I can guess why." I also smiled lightly but said nothing. I was more for frank talking and courtroom debates, but I could still play these political games. Harvey wanted me here because he knew I could be a second pair of eyes watching out for him, and catching things he might miss. And it was easier to do that when you could just watch

"The people are demanding I do something about it, but I can't order the police to shoot an innocent man!"

"Of course, there is the Joker's other-"

"Absolutely not, Harvey. I am NOT releasing the Batman."

I squashed the urge to roll my eyes. Garcia was worried about going back on his previous actions. He must have thought it wouldn't look good to lock up a vigilante and then let him go, even if both actions were because of a psychopath's demands. Of course he would choose the worse one to follow.

"But Garcia, the public is demanding it." Harvey threw the mayor's own words back at him, covering it with an earnest look. _The public is demanding Batman is arrested, Harvey. I can't go against them. _He smoothed out the paper he had brought from his office, and set it in front of Garcia. "It's all filled out, Garcia. It only needs your signature, and we can try to compromise with the Joker. We release Batman, but Reese lives."

Oh, that was clever. We appear to be trying to reason with the madman, and when he blows up a hospital the public are less willing to jump through his hoops.

"Harvey-" The phone began ringing, cutting off Garcia. We all tensed, and the mayor took a fortifying breath before answering the phone. "Yes?" Whoever was on the other line started speaking, and Garcia's clenched hand relaxed a bit. So it wasn't the Joker with a new demand.

"Warden, I don't know why-" Garcia stopped talking again. _Warden?_ Wasn't that someone who ran a jail? I took in a sharp breath of air. The only reason a warden would call was if something important happened - something involving Bruce, for example. Me and Harvey exchanged a look. If someone had attacked Bruce now, the results could be disastrous.

"_What!?" _Garcia stood up, eyes wide. I bit my lip nervously, desperately wishing to hear what the Warden was saying. What had happened? Was Bruce alright? Harvey was opening and closing his mouth, wanting to say something but holding back.

It wasn't long before Garcia slammed down the phone and sunk back into his chair. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking frazzled. The other hand slid the paper back towards Harvey. "We won't be needing that anymore. Wayne escaped the jail."

Harvey's mouth twitched and his eyes lit up. "How?" I could practically imagine him dancing around the office, laughing his head off. His posture broadcasted his thoughts perfectly - _victory! _

Luckily, Garcia seemed shell-shocked and was staring at his hands"He walked out the front door." I snorted softly at the look on his face. His eyes were round and glazed over, and his mouth was moving like a fish.

"And nobody saw him?" Harvey's lips were twitching more, and an admiring tone creeped into his voice. If it was anyone else he would probably have been spitting mad, but Bruce was a different story. Harvey had fought the prosecution, digging his heels in and practically refusing to move on the charges. Now Bruce was out of jail, and Batman was able to help Harvey again.

The mayor let out a frustrated sigh. "They _all _saw him. They just watched as he walked out the door. At least he had his own key…"

"How'd he get a key?"

"They say he must have lifted it off one of the guards."

_Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. _Harvey's lips were moving uncontrollably now. "I don't think it would reassure the public to know that all it would take was for some mass-murderer to lift a key from a guard to get back on the streets. It only took Bruce a week to escape." His voice was now soothing, consoling.

Garcia groaned and buried his head in his hands. "It'd be _terrible. _They just let him go…"

"Of course, if they thought you had ordered them to let him go…" The D.A. slid the paper back across the desk. "They would feel more reassured that the Mayor was taking action to protect the city from the Joker."

The paper pardoning Bruce Wayne for his "acts of vigilantism" seemed more reasonable now. I caught Harvey's eyes as Garcia took a pen from his drawer and signed the paper. He was so good at these political games, knowing exactly when to forge ahead with fanfare and when to sidle up and slip under notice. He winked at me, then picked up the now-signed paper from the desk.


	11. Rendezvous

**A/N:** Yes, I am alive and writing! I know, it's amazing. You must have thought this story was going cold-turkey. Well, no. It's just being updated at a snail's pace now that I have school and everything associated with it. Including lots of homework and sports. So, second to last (possibly? It might be third-to-last if I split it into two chapters) is FINALLY up and next update will probably be posted next Ice Age :( Sorry. But hey, this chapter is almost twice as long as the rest of my other chapters. But twice as long also means twice as much stuff I can accidentally make mistakes on. Since I don't have a beta and wasn't able to check this over since I wanted to get this out ASAP (yeah I know, I would have needed MORE time?!) I kinda neglected that part. But I'm pretty sure most of it is error-free.

Ok, so everybody give DestinedJedi a huge round of applause for giving me an awesome idea for this chapter. More about it after the chapter, so I don't spoil anything. :)

* * *

I sat at home and watched the television when Bruce turned himself in. I saw the news conference in 36-inch plasma perfection on the "damn good television." I watched as he walked up to the stage, face stony and unforgiving. It was the same look he donned before roaring out into the night as Batman. It was the expression he wore behind the mask. It was grim determination, a stubborn refusal to back down from the choice.

The only thing that betrayed his nervousness was the way his hands would twitch and clench into fists. He knew it was a risk, he knew it was most likely a bad idea. Goodness knows I had said so enough times. But with the same stubborn streak that had begun as a child and only strengthened during his time away, he went through with his plan.

Tears trickled down my face as I watched. Why didn't I have the courage to turn myself in, to take some of the responsibility off of Bruce's shoulders and onto mine? My young employer would have immediately denied the offer and refused to let me near the press conference, but I should have offered anyway. I should have told him that he was like my son before he went, and that I didn't want to see him locked in jail. But the wall between employer and employee – however thin- had kept me from saying that.

I had worked for many families before having a permanent job with the Waynes, and in that time I had learned there were rules and social stigmas that separated a butler from the family he served, however close they were. I had to dance a line, between acting as a loyal employee and acting as his friend and guardian. Although Bruce knew I cared for him, he didn't know how much. He didn't know that his father and I would worry over his scrapes and bruises together, and sometimes chuckle at each other once we realized it. He didn't know the reason why I became his guardian, and not his mother's cousin living in Chicago. He didn't know of the adoption papers I had all but finished before I found out that Bruce considered having other parents an insult to Thomas and Martha's memory.

The quiet young boy who had remained fiercely protective and loyal to his parent's memories had grown into a sullen teenager who disobeyed everyone except me. Only I could sometimes bring back into line, remind him that he would not throw the family's name and his own life away. The fierce, raw emotion was still there, but mostly it was buried under sullen brooding. It would flare out on occasion, to protect his family against insults or slurs to their memory.

The day of Joe Chill's trial, I had though the flares would change into a raging inferno. I called Rachel, asked her to accompany Bruce to the trial and keep him from doing anything stupid. They had gone, and Chill had been shot. I had watched the news bulletin with dread, fearing that it was Bruce. When they did not mention the billionaire except in passing, I had sighed and felt the tension drain from my body. I shouldn't have relaxed that easily. When Bruce didn't appear that night, I had called Rachel. She told me that the last time she had seen Bruce was when she had dropped him off outside Falcone's restaurant. She refused to say why, and I dreaded the worst.

For a while, I had thought Bruce dead. Publicly, I maintained the position that I thought Bruce had just disappeared to take a break from the stresses of leading a company, but deep inside I mourned his death. When a postcard came in the mail, I only had to read it once to know what it meant. On one side it showed a scene of the English countryside and on the back was a very short message in familiar handwriting. _I'll come back when I've found what I'm looking for. _That one sentence absolutely convinced me that Bruce was alive and well, somewhere in the world.

I kept the house in top condition while I waited for Bruce to come back. As the years passed, I began to doubt myself. Had that really been Bruce who wrote the postcard? Was it just addressed to the wrong house? The years still dragged on, and Bruce still didn't come back. Had Bruce been killed abroad and lay in a morgue unnamed with nobody to claim him? Had he found someone he loved and decided to abandon his life in America for good? Where was he?

Then, I had gotten the phone call. At first I didn't recognize who it was. His voice was deeper, calmer, more… peaceful. The thing that I had recognized was his laugh. It was the same as his mother's, a quiet chuckle that meshed well with his dry humor. Hope ballooned in me, and I rushed to schedule a private jet as soon as possible. At that moment, it hadn't occurred to me to ask what Bruce had been doing across the world in the middle of a poverty-stricken country.

When I finally saw him again, Bruce was older, with creases in his face that hadn't been there before. A few scars accented his face; ones that I knew were acquired sometime during his disappearance. He didn't hold himself with the confidence of one born to money anymore, but rather the confidence of one that has proven himself to be great. He was still quiet, but more reflective than sullen. His clothes were old, worn, torn, muddy, ill-fitting, and not adequate for the weather, but Bruce seemed to be right at home in them as he strolled down the runway. A most preposterous thought came into my head at that moment, one that kept me from breaking down into thankful tears and instead returning Bruce's smile. _How will I ever manage to convince him to wear a suit again?_

When we started talking on the plane, it was more obvious that Bruce had changed. Especially when he told me of his idea to take on Gotham's underworld (or majority population) by himself. I had doubted him, but kept my thoughts to myself. I helped him assemble materials and construct the Batman. Before his debut as Batman, I demanded he give me a demonstration of his fighting skills. What I didn't expect was for him to drag me out, place me on a fire escape, hand me a gun (in case he lost) and then proceed to attack a gang of five men who were mugging someone below my perch. He won with only a few bruises on his part, and that was the last time I had questioned his ability to fight.

I had helped Bruce maintain his double life, and made it possible for him to continue. I patched him up after his Batman excursions, I set up meetings and arranged parties for his billionaire persona. I made sure the equipment was hung up and in the right spot, and I monitored papers and other forms of media for information about both lives. I kept the house running and made sure Bruce made his meetings. I cooked for him and comforted him when Batman failed. But I hadn't managed to help him this time. The Joker was a unique and brilliant psychopath, and I had no ideas that could help. I had nothing to say that kept Bruce away from the press conference.

* * *

The days following the "Batman Revelation" were tense for me. I kept the television on all day, keeping my ears open for news about Bruce. I kept on fearing that the inmates would gang up on him, and with no body armor or gadgets, superior numbers would simply overwhelm him. I worried that the police would finally issue a warrant for me, and come banging on the door of the penthouse demanding I turn myself in.

Paparazzi and television stations had set up camps outside, trying to find a way to get inside the home of the Batman, or talk to his butler. I ran errands with a hat set low upon my head and the collar of my coat popped. The secret exit Bruce had used to leave his home without detection so he could safely patrol the streets as Batman proved to be a blessing for me. I could come and go as I pleased, effectively avoiding the media who waited by the front door.

I contemplated simply moving into the "Batcave," as I unofficially called it, before quickly banishing the idea. It would not do for someone to follow me and find where all the Batman gear was safely stored away. If someone managed to escape with even a handful of the technology, it would be disastrous for law enforcement. The police's weapons and supplies would be ineffective against the technology criminals could glean from whatever they managed to steal. I shuddered to think of what the Joker would do if he got his hands on something like the tumbler.

A week passed with no news about Batman. Or rather, no news about his condition in jail. There had been plenty of hours devoted to interviewing employees, Gothamites, old classmates, and the hundreds of other people Bruce had run into during his life. Psychologists gave contradicting ideas as to hundreds of questions the people had about Bruce, and his life was examined under a microscope. Some of the psychologists had legitimate ideas or diagnoses that hit close to the mark, but others were simply wrong. Bruce wasn't imagining Batman as a separate man, thinking his orders came from a giant life-sized bat, or overly fond of bats.

The news stations grated on my nerves, but I continued to watch them in hopes that they would actually air news about what was happening to Bruce. What I didn't expect was the Joker to call, demanding Bruce's release. I couldn't believe my ears. The same man that had held the city ransom for Batman to reveal himself was now demanding he be released. It brought to mind the jewel-thief all those years ago – _It's so boring…- _But I pushed that thought to the back of my mind, and headed for the secret exit. Bruce was a man of action. I knew what he would do, and I wanted to be at the Batcave to greet him.

I was rebooting the computer system and worrying about what was taking Bruce so long when his arrival was announced by the slow whirring of the elevator. Personally, I thought it was quite ingenious to make a shipping crate the entrance to the temporary Cave. I finished typing in the last password (Bruce had insisted on having at least four), stood up, and turned around to smile at him. "I hope you're well, sir?"

It sounded so formal, but I knew Bruce could hear the worry and relief behind it. Again, it was me dancing between the lines of guardian and friend and butler. Bruce strolled off the elevator, still clad in his prison uniform. He was whole and healthy, hands shoved casually into his pockets and a small smile on his lips. I had feared he would be beaten and starved, but if anything Bruce seemed more rested than before he went to jail.

"As well as expected."

"I'm a bit curious as to why you're so late. The prison is across town, yes, but I didn't think it would take longer than a half-hour. Surely they released you soon after the Joker's call."

Bruce gave me a half-smile, with the corner of his lips just quirked up slightly and his head tilted to the side. It was one of the mannerisms he'd gotten in the years he'd been 'abroad.' Whenever I asked him about something he'd done that was something I'd disapprove of and most likely illegal, he'd simply smile and tilt his head and sometimes throw in an ambiguous sentence or two. He'd become adept at giving non-answers.

"How are you, Alfred?" The smile became an expression of genuine worry and apprehensiveness. Of course, Bruce would be worried about his old butler. I let a small smile creep onto my face. "I don't think you should be worried about me, Master Bruce. I don't recall having to spend the past week in jail."

"But people know you're my butler. Did the press do anything? What about the mob? Batman has so many enemies." Bruce couldn't hide the tired look that flashed across his face. Batman had basically made an enemy out of every single criminal in the city. Before, the only time they could attack him was when Batman was in specially made bulletproof armor, well-equipped and ready to defend himself. Now, they could attack Bruce Wayne or his loved ones at any time. We both knew it would happen eventually.

"That secret exit of yours can be put to use at other times than fancy parties. I find it most helpful when one is carrying in groceries." I widened my smile. Bruce shouldn't be worried about me, not when so much was happening. Luckily, my assurances seemed to put his fears to rest for now. He slid into the seat in front of the computer that I had recently vacated.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, what are we going to do about the Joker's newest threat?" Bruce's hands paused for a millisecond before going back to their rapid typing. I don't think he noticed it, but he always paused whenever I mentioned the Joker, and I couldn't tell whether it was from fear, hate, fascination, or a some sort of mix.

"We are going to stay here and try to figure out what his next move will be."

"Didn't we already figure that out, sir, when he told us on national television? Or perhaps you missed that while in prison?"

Bruce smiled. "No, I heard that. But the police can handle that threat. Gordon will be evacuating all the hospitals in Gotham as we speak. No, we need to worry about _why._ The Joker has a plan, he always has a plan. We need to figure out how this attack figures into it before he starts."

"I believe I already know what he wanted out of this."

Bruce's forehead wrinkled. "What?"

"_You_." He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. It was obvious to one who wasn't the target, and therefore otherwise occupied with a multitude of other things, including survival. "He wanted you out of jail and free. I don't know exactly how, but the Batman fits into the Joker's plans."

Bruce sighed. "And that's why I'm not doing anything until I figure out why."

I glanced down at my watch. "Well you have fifteen more minutes if you decide to change your mind. And I'm curious as to what exactly you're doing on the computer."

"I'm sorry Alfred, but I can't tell you yet." Ah, so it was that mysterious project Bruce had been working on ever since he'd gotten home from Hong Kong. The only clue I had been able to glean from him was that it had something to do with cell phones. His refusal to tell me more made me quite certain that whatever he was doing, I would not approve. But I kept my opinions to myself, because usually Bruce's less noble doings would be the ones that could save lives. Getting blackmail on Judge Faden during Falcone's case, for example.

For the next ten minutes, we sat in comfortable silence. Bruce was working on his secret project, while I simply sat on the couch and reflected on how happy I was now that my charge was safely back. I had no idea for how long, but for now the fact that I knew where he was and that he wouldn't be jumped by thugs was enough to keep me happy after days of worrying.

I glanced down at my watch again, and reached over for the remote. "I know the hospitals are cleared, but it is a good idea to find out which one he targeted. It could have something to do with whatever he's doing." Bruce looked away from his project and nodded, so I flipped on the television. It was already set to the news channel. What else what one going to watch down in the Batcave? It's not like we stayed there for tea and crumpets.

The news anchor was sitting at her desk, nervously shuffling papers while she talked about the one thing on everyone's mind. "- according to sources, he's been released almost immediately after the Joker's demand. Both Batman and auditor Coleman Reese's whereabouts are unknown. Rumors say that multiple attempts have been made on Reese's life, and he is currently in protective custody. But not everybody is ready to give in to the Joker. Witnesses report that a SWAT van, said to be carrying Mr. Reese, was nearly hit by a pick-up truck until an unidentified car drove between the two larger trucks. Nothing is known about the driver, but many speculate it could be the rising of another masked vigilante."

I turned and glared at Bruce. Now that I was looking for it, I could see the beginnings of a bruise on his chin, and faint scratches on his hands and face. Of course Bruce would take the time to rescue someone who practically hated him. I shook my head but said nothing. Hadn't it been me who had said that you should be courteous of everybody, no matter what you felt about them? Of course, I had always considered being courteous as simply using polite language and refraining from insults, not reckless driving and interrupting assassination attempts. Bruce steadily met my gaze, but I said nothing and simply turned away, refocusing on the television.

The anchor was still compulsively shuffling her papers. "The Joker's time limit is up, and now we citizens of Gotham wait with baited breath for news. It is unknown for now what he has done, but -" She paused, looking at someone off-screen and putting her hand to her ear. "This just in, the Joker has attacked. Just minutes ago, a building in upper Gotham has been bombed. It is unclear what building, but reports say it isn't a hospital. It's located on Prosper Street…" She paled and trailed off, while Bruce and I watched her in tense silence. "It- It's a school… Gotham Medical College…."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. _a school_. The Joker had gone after a campus full of teenagers that barely fit into the legal-adult category. There was a loud slam across the room, and I flinched at the sudden noise. Bruce was white with anger, staring at the television. The anchor was talking, and I knew sound was coming from the television, but I couldn't hear it through the buzzing in my ear.

Bruce's teeth were bared in a growl, and he was nearly vibrating with cold anger. He forcefully pushed himself out of his chair and stalked over to where the Batsuit was stored. I had thought I'd seen Bruce angry before, when Ra's Al Ghul had attacked Gotham, but that was simply annoyance compared to this. His movements were completely fluid, with not one extraneous movement.

I stood up in a daze and helped him into the armour, relying on the instinct of routine than actually paying attention. All my thoughts were shadowed by the numbness of shock."What are you going to do?"

Bruce was fully suited, and he held the cowl in his hands. He turned to me, eyes flat and unemotional. "I'm going to find him. And then I'm going to make sure he's locked up for the rest of his life."

"Are you going to kill him?" I didn't know where the question had come from, but it felt imperative to answer. Something had stirred within me, and I could feel a bloodthirsty need for revenge for people I've never even met. I could only imagine what that would do to Bruce, who took every death in Gotham as a personal failure of Batman. And although I felt the need for revenge, I didn't want my honorary son to become a killer.

"Batman doesn't kill. And I don't want to end his suffering so quickly." A savage look flickered across Bruce's face that I could relate to. "It doesn't mean I'm not going to hold back if he fights."

I nodded in approval, and put my hand on his shoulder. We stood there for a second, before Bruce headed for the computer. "When it's dark, the Joker and I will have our final meeting. For now, we need to prepare."

I headed towards Bruce. "How can I help?"

* * *

**A/N The Second:** Yes, there it is. The chapter that took me forever to write. What do you think? Good? Bad? Disappointing? So-so? Please review, they make me happy! Anyways, back to DestinedJedi's idea. You know who came up with that whole thing with the college being blown up instead of a hospital? Yes, that's right. DestinedJedi. An amazing idea, and please everybody give a round of applause. Seriously an awesome person.


	12. Bars

**A/N:** This is a more ambiguous chapter, but then again it is coming from the POV of a drunk. I originally posted a shorter version, but then due to dissatisfaction and encouragement by my reviewers, I went back and made it longer- less of a plot-filler and more of an actual chapter. So, new and improved, here is chapter 12. Please R/R, because I listen to you people. You're like my unofficial betas :)

* * *

I walk into the bar in the early afternoon, ignoring the school kids dashing past the nearly empty bar. I can't help but feel annoyed at their antics and shouts of joy. Don't they know they should be sad? That they should stay indoors and hide from the Joker? But they continue their games and conversations, oblivious to my grief. They don't care that today just a few hours ago, the man had blown up my life. He had destroyed my research, my job, my family.

I'm one of three people in the bar, and the owner is polishing the glasses and watching the television. It is on the news channel, sound low but still audible once you get close enough. I sit down right in front of it, and wince as the video of Coleman Reese's interview is displayed. Originally I had planned on coming down to the bar and buying a beer, sitting in some dark corner and remembering what my life used to be. But the reminder of the Joker, of the man that had destroyed it all, made me more than a little reckless. I slide onto a bar stool and pull out my lunch and dinner money for today. "I want shots, as many as I can get."

He looks at me, sees my haphazard appearence, and doesn't bother asking what kind I want. Good bartenders always can tell when a person just wants to get smashed, and Gotham has good bartenders if nothing else. He lines up a few glasses and immediately I throw back three of them in a row, ignoring the burning in my throat and the stinging in my eyes. Funny, I hadn't cried this entire time, and now my eyes water up because of a few cheap shots. I salute the television with one of the empty glasses. _A toast,_ I tell myself. _To death and the poor suckers that can't follow. _The first time I've actually used a sick day when I wasn't sick in over a year, and the one day that something life-changing happens. Isn't that just the definition of irony? If I had been there, maybe I wouldn't have been left alive while everyone else I know and love is blown to debris.

I take a smaller sip of my fourth shot, then swirl the rest of the amber liquid around in the small glass and stare into its depths. Maybe if I concentrate long enough, he will come back. Maybe I will wake up and realize none of it ever happened, and he's still sleeping besides me and bitching about having to get up so early to school. Maybe- I put the glass to my lips and throw it back, swallowing the other half as quickly as possible. Maybe my dreams are all just as empty as the glass and it's really happening.

I thump that one back on the bar and pick up my next, then turn my attention to the television. They're replaying the press conference, and Bruce Wayne is standing up at the podium, uncharacteristically serious. Just yesterday, we had sat at the clinic and played a faux drinking game with some of the older kids with terminal diseases. Instead of whiskey or some other shot, we had put pixie sticks into little paper Dixie cups and ate one every time someone had said Batman or Bruce Wayne. It was so nice to see the kids smile and talk and forget about their impending death.

I look at the glasses lined up on the bar in front of me, and then back and the television. He had always loved to play drinking games, but he had never liked getting drunk (and getting the accompanying hangover the next day) so we had spent a lot of time playing with other non-alcoholic drinks, grapes, or pudding. It had become a contest to see which of us could come up with the most outlandish thing to substitute. But he's not here anymore, and we could never decide who had won. In the background, the announcer is giving the camera a serious look, trying to look sorry for people he's never met. "And the Joker's unexpected attack-"

I snatch up the next glass in line, relishing the sting of alcohol. With him gone, what's the point of trying to be creative? Might as well just go back to basics. But whatever he was used at the time, One word we had never played on was when they said the Joker. We had agreed that he was too serious to make fun of, too deadly to risk angering. But really, what had we been afraid of? That he would suddenly storm into our apartment? "The Joker had threatened-" I knock back another one and settle into the seat. This is going to take a while, and I'm planning on getting spectacularly drunk.

* * *

The bartender walks by again, and I gesture at him to come over. He's hesitant, because it's obvious from the number of glasses around me and my slightly unfocused gaze that I've already had an excessive amount of drinks. But I'm still a paying customer, and he is a business after all. I reach into the inner pocket of my coat and pull out a wad of slihgtly crinkled bills, slamming it on the table. "More shots…" I slur, pushing the money towards him. I had been carrying around the money despite my fear of getting mugged because I was looking for something nice to buy him for his birthday. But things aren't very useful to a dead man.

He takes the money and replaces it with more beautiful alcohol. I wrap a hand around the first glass and slide it closer to my hunched form while the owner whisks away the empty glasses surrounding me. I think back and remember the man who had been in my life just hours ago. He was a student at Gotham Medical College, just barely scraping his way through school with the aid of a scholarship and the payment of a minimum wage part-time job. Needless to say, his life had been pretty crappy before he'd moved in with me. We'd met when I was working at the clinic attached to the school as a secretary, and he had gone to get some hands-on experience.

At first, it was just as a friend. He needed a place, and I was getting pretty isolated between a crappy job and living alone. Then we had become closer, and finally started dating. We had just celebrated our first year's anniversary a month ago. And now I was never going to see him again. He was gone, blown to smithereens by a maniac because the police wouldn't allow one unimportant man to be killed.

_If not, I blow up a hospital_. That's what he had said. He said he was going to blow up a hospital, not a school with a relatively unknown clinic attached to it, where graduating students occasionally volunteered before moving to a better job. But apparently the little-known clinic was known to the Joker, because that was what he had targeted.

I look up at the television behind the bar and hold back a snarl. It's the footage of the Coleman Reese interview again, and you can tell by their faces that the Joker's voice is coming out of the phone perched on the table between them. I throw back two shots before the video ends, but I can still remember whey I'm here. I pat down my pockets in a vain attempt to find just one more dollar, but all my money is already spent. I eye the remaining shots and wish I had gotten something even stronger. Maybe just purified alcohol.

My head hangs lower over the bar, and I glare at the television. Except this time it's something new. That newsman – Angler or something like that – is tied up in a chair, looking terrified out of his wits. "Bartender," I call. He ignores me, focused on chatting up a single girl at the other side of the bar. "Bart-ender!" I bellow, and then frown. That didn't sound right.... He whirls around, and even though I'm drunk I can tell he's annoyed.

I point in the general direction of the screen with a wavering hand. "Turn it up." The bar had filled up since I'd gotten here, and now everyone is paying attention to me. They watch the screen as the bartender whips out a remote from somewhere, and newsman's terrified voice (loud enough to now be heard by everybody not sitting directly in front of it) fills the silent room. "-nightfall, the city is mine, and anyone left here plays by my rules." He stutters. The people shift uneasily, but I can't claw my way through the booze and grief to be scared of whatever new terror is happening now. "If you don't want to be in the game get out now. But the bridge and tunnel crowd are in for a surprise. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…"

Angler's words are replaced by the Joker's trademark evil cackle, and the patrons start murmuring in fear, despite having already known it was the Joker the minute they looked at the screen. How many people create hostage videos and proclaim complete control of the city? There can only be one big criminal at a time. Before it was Falcone and the mob, now it's the Joker, acting again to create mass murder and chaos and general destruction of everything. One man by the door stands up. "Hell, I don't know what backwards parents raised you, but I always learned to take care of your own ass first. I'm getting outta here!"

He moves to the door, only to be followed by a mob of frightened people. I stay right where I am, continuing my drinking game. Let the Joker blow me up too. It's not like I've a lot to loose anymore, after he killed my fiancé. This time, I'm not going to play his game. I'm going to stay right where I am and drink myself into oblivion. Hopefully, my death will be quick.


	13. Batman Returns

**A/N:** Wow, almost seven pages exactly! (I'm short one line…) And I thought my chapters were long before… Anyways, this is pretty different from the others, because it's a major important one for plot (Finally, the Joker/Batman showdown!) and I don't think I've written any of the other chapters in present tense. I had a lot of trouble with verb continuity in this one, kept on going from past to present and back again… Some of it is still probably in there, but I did my best to change it all to present. Anyways, have fun reading. And please tell me if I completely massacred the Joker's character. I did my best, but it's so hard to write a good Joker and I can't tell if this one is even mediocre.

* * *

I leap off the rooftops, letting the anger course through my veins and the wind buffet my body from side to side. My heart speeds up, an automatic reaction to hurling myself off tall buildings. It energizes and refreshes me. So much has happened, so much is dragging me down, but when I become Batman I don't have to feel any of it. I don't have to worry about such things as moral dilemmas. I have a rule, and I have a goal. Simple, black and white. I don't allow myself to listen to feelings or care for any sort of friend.

Batman was my escape from the existence of Bruce Wayne, and it makes my heart ache to think I have to give it up. But I will make sacrifices, and I will live with the consequences of my actions. For now, though, I gather the heartache and the anger and the grief and everything that has been stewing since the press conference. Ducard's words come floating back to me. _The will to act_. I will take all those emotions broiling in me and put them to use. I will change it to pure, iron will to beat the Joker into submission.

I fling out my arms and activate my wings, the reckless dive now becoming a smooth albeit rushed descent. The only noise is the soft fluttering of my cape as it catches the air. I am silent, I am deadly. I am on the hunt for a maniac.

The rooftop looms closer, and I glide a few feet past the edge (experience learned from mistakes) before deactivating my wings and landing on the tar with a soft thump. I press my gloved hand to my right ear, and listen for Fox's voice. "Anything yet?" I speak in Batman's rough growl, a habit formed from many nights of such activity. One slip of the voice, and my secret would have been out. It doesn't matter now, but I don't try to fight habit. Fox's voice crackles in my ear. "Nothing yet, Bruce. But we'll get him."

The smallest smile forms on my lips. _We'll get him._ Alfred, and now more recently Fox, could keep me smiling in these dark times. They keep my head up, keep me from drowning in a spiraling pit of despair. Ever-encouraging, ever watchful, ever willing to lend a piece of advice or a story to make things seem just a bit better.

I stand on the roof, tune the radio in the ears of my cowl to pick up all frequencies, and start to skim the airways manually for some sign of the Joker. It is a far hope that the Joker would be ordering his posse around by a cell phone or radio, and an even less likely one that if he was, I would find him before my program did. But I listen despite such non-existent chances, because I need to do _something._ I can't just stand and wait for Fox to tell me when the program discovers the Joker. I have to be out, searching for him despite everything. It was what I have done, and it was what I will do.

_"I told you, Ronald! I don't-"_

_"Hi, I'm looking for-"_

_"Did you hear what-"_

_"All units-"_

_"So I says to her-"_

_"Can you believe-"_

_"Copy that-"_

I flip through the channels, but there is nothing. No hint of malice, no sinister instructions. The streets are quiet, most likely from the Joker's latest threat. I grit my teeth in anger when I remember his ultimatum. The Joker has to pay for what he did, and I can hardly do that if I can't find the monster. "Anything?" I growl, as I soar down from the roof.

I can almost hear the subtle frustration coloring Fox's words. "Nothing yet." The soft tapping of keys fills my ear. Apparently, I'm not the only one who can't sit still when there is work to be done. I activate the roof of my Tumbler and slide in, still monitoring the channels. Fox and I sit in silence, each absorbed in his work.

"Wait-" Suddenly, Fox interrupts my thoughts, and there is the quick tapping of keys, and another man's voice floods my ear. "-part of a social experiment..." My hands clutch the controls of the Tumbler, an involuntary reaction whenever I hear him talk. Even something as simple as his voice makes my instincts roar to life, screaming _danger!_

Fox's voice appears again, but the Joker's is still audible in the background, intimidating despite the lowered volume. "His voice in the ferry, but that's not the source…" Fox trails off

_At midnight, I blow you all up._

More sound of clacking keys and then Fox speaks again. "I've got him!" His voice is calm and professional, like we were discussing some new business arrangement in one of Wayne Tower's meeting rooms, but it is layered with undertones of excitement and exuberance. "He's West, in an unoccupied building overlooking the river. I'm sending the location right now."

_If, however, one of you presses the button I'll let that boat live._

The Tumbler's GPS flickers on, and I roar away to the West, my heartbeat increasing with adrenaline and a strange sense of finality. With Fox's information and Gotham's phones sending me constant images of the city, there is no way the Joker could hide again. Tonight was to be the last encounter, my instincts assure me. And I've leanred to trust my instincts.

I flip a switch and commanded the Tumbler to call Gordon's cell phone. He answers in a strained voice, and I don't waste any time letting him finish introducing himself."Gordon, I have the Joker's location…"

_You choose! Oh, and you might want to decide quickly, because the people on the other boat may not be quite so noble..._

* * *

The Tumbler completed a tight turn, and I jerk back into the seat as the wheels skid before screeching to a halt. The building is about a block ahead, the Joker inside. I'm itching to go now, to attack before anything can happen, but I have to meet Gordon on a building across the street. With the Joker, one could leave nothing to chance, so I had called him in, who in turn brought a fully-armed and ready to battle SWAT team.

It is strange, to think of him as the Commissioner when the last one was so against Batman. To have an ally in such a high position makes me feel that Gotham is more secure, taking the tiniest step towards rehabilitation. Dent was another step, a larger one that inspired others. I shake such thoughts away and focus on Gordon and his men, surveying the Joker's building.

The structure is brand new, some stickers still attached to the newly-installed windows. The floors are rough wood, supports and other building materials left in piles throughout the building. Huge windows cover the front, but they are dark. I can faintly see figures shifting behind them in the ambient light.

Gordon is talking strategy with the leader of the SWAT teams. I creep up behind them, and survey the scene. The shapes I had seen earlier are now the distinct outlines of people, guns in hand. They're lined up across the windows, a huddle of other outlines sitting in a group inside the loose circle they formed.

I frown as I look closer. Why didn't the men build a barrier with all the loose constructin materials strewn around? Standing as they are now, they would be easy picking for any half-decent sniper. The questions nag at the back of my brain, and Gordon is apparently feeling the same.

"It's a shooting gallery. Why'd he chose this place?" He trails off at the end of his question, and the SWAT leader looks up from his rifle scope. "We have clear shots on five clows, sir. Snipers take them out, smash the windows – a team rappels in, a team moves in by the stairwells. Two or three casualties max." His voice is calm and calculating, discussing the plan with an air of one who had done similar things many times before, and had trained even longer.

Gordon seems to consider the options, the strain apparent on his face. Should he attack with the aid of surprise, or move more carefully in case the Joker had planned something disastrous? He takes in a fortifying breath before giving a curt nod. "Let's do it."

The questions flickering in my mind raise to a cacophany of protests, and I interrupt before the other man could get on his radio. "It's not that simple. With the Joker, it never is." While the police had spent hundreds of manhours looking for the Joker, I was the one who had studied every morsel of information about him that I could. I was the one who had analyzed every scrap of evidence, who had thouroughly learnt every case. The information the police had were spread across some two-dozen CSI's, not to mention the patrolmen.

Gordon had whirled when he heard me, and his eyes narrowed. "What's _simple_ is that every second we don't take him, those people on the ferries get closer to blowing each other up!" I can practically see the fear in Gordon's eyes, the terror that so many people will die if he does the wrong thing. And how could he do the right thing when he was up against an insane genius who had evaded capture for so long?

"That won't happen." I try to reassure him. I need the calm, collected Gordon who had helped me defeat Ra's, the one who could think and create a plan. I need the man I had chosen to help me accomplish my monumental task of cleaning up Gotham.

"Then he'll blow them both up!" He threw his arms up in despair. "There's no time- we have to go in _now_-"

"There's always a catch with him." I know there has to be something, some plan, but I cannot figure it out. It makes me crazy, the way he can tear my city from its foundations and throw it into chaos, and I still have no idea what motivates him. And that fear, that knowledge makes me dig in my feet and consider every possible outcome before acting. That fear was the same one that made Gordon rash and single-minded, trying so hard to do the right thing.

"That's why we can't wait, we can't play his games!" Gordon is right about that. If we play along, we simply give him more power, and put him in a better position to carry out his plans. My gaze drifts again to the Joker's men and the hostages they guarded. _There's always a catch…_

"Who are the hostages?" I ask, retaining the barest hope that maybe some of the people in the college escaped from the explosion.

Gordon sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "When we evacuated Gotham General, there was a busload of people missing." He winces. "We think we found them."

I quash my disappointment and impending guilt, and focus on the question at hand. Why would the Joker take the time to abduct a busload of sick people? There's always a catch… I set my shoulders and turn towards the building. "I need five minutes. Alone-"

"No," Gordon interrupts. "There's no time. We have clear shots."

I ignore him and advance towards the edge of the building. With five minutes, I will have enough time to figure out what exactly the Joker has up his sleeve and be able to relay it back to Gordon.

Behind me, the Commissioner curses and I hear the click of a safety being released. "There are innocent people in there with them. We have to save them! _I_ have to save them!" I can hear the hysteria building, growing with every word. Gordon has kept his head through so much, and now he is finally cracking. I ignore him, praying he will listen to me, and leap off the roof. Five minutes, and I will be able to figure out what exactly the Joker has planned.

* * *

The building is dark, and I am only able to make out faint shapes in the darkness. I switch on my comm. "Fox, I need picture." He doesn't respond, but a second later two pieces of glass-like high technology sonar recievers slide down over the eyepieces of my mask. It takes a few moments, but then I am able to see the world in pulsating white smoke. I crack the glass window and slide in, making my movements as quiet as possible.

The room is quiet as I approach the Joker's men. They are still standing in a loose row, facing outward, guns in hand. The prisoners are huddled together in a group, all dressed in the pale scrubs of doctors. I ghost up towards one of the more isolated men, then used my grapple gun to swing myself out and knock him over. I drag him into the shadows, and tear off the mask. A distressed face looks up at me, his yells muffled by the duct tape secured across his mouth. His hands are bound in the same manner, a gun stuck between the immobile fingers.

For a minute the only thing I can do is stare at him in confusion. Why had the Joker disabled his own men? Why hadn't the hostages realized it and overthrown the men? _There's always a catch…_ Slowly, the puzzle begins fitting together, each answer leading to the next in a convulted chain reaction. The only reason the Joker would kidnap a busload of hostages would be to use them as distrations, and what would be more distracting than successfully taking out the bad guys and being attacked by the very hostages you've been trying to save?

I whirl around towards the other men standing by the windows. This close, the duct tape holding the guns to unwilling hands is clearly visible even in the swirling world of sonar. At closer inspection, I can also make out the forms of guns clutched in the doctors's hands. Why hadn't I practiced with the sonar beforehand, and thus been able to distinguish such important details from the confusing constantly swirling picture? If only I'd had more time to fine-tune it!

"Bruce, a SWAT team's rappeling off the roof now. They're making their move." Fox's voice is calm and I curse in response, trying to ignore how odd it felt to be called Bruce when I was in my Batman gear. To me, revealing my true identity, although monumentally life-changing for Bruce Wayne, doesn't seem to have that great of an effect on my actions as Batman. I still wear my mask, still fly throught the streets as I always did. It is difficult remember that to everyone else, I'm now always Bruce Wane the playboy. I'm not just Batman, terror of the night anymore. The truth of my identity is not shocking to me, but it does have a huge influence on the people around me. To them, it would be like the Joker dressing up as a priest and marrying a loving couple.

"Don't move," I rasp at the clown-hostage. He fearfully nods, and I dash towards the other hostages lined up for the police force's best snipers. The distance is too far, so I swing my grapple gun up to aim at the foot of the furthest hostage. It hisses away with deadly accuracy, succesfully latching onto the man. He looks downard in confusion, and that's when I heave on the line with all my strength.

He falls, and then like dominoes the rest of them follow not a moment too soon. As the last one lands with a muffled yell of surprise, the windows shatter. The bullets whiz over the heads of their targets, and then there is no more time to watch as another SWAT team immediately rappels through the space that used to be filled with windows.

The next few moments are chaos, as the doctor-clowns start firing upon SWAT officers, and the officers don't know who to shoot. I simply start attacking anybody within my reach with a usable weapon. The last thing I need is a bloodbath, on either side. Eventually, though, the officers seem to realize which group were the hostages. Once they finally started focusing their efforts on the false doctors, I head towards the top of the building, and towards the Joker.

* * *

The first thing I hear on the top floor is the low growling of dogs. Then the Joker's voice, high and excited. "Go on, get him!" There's the clinking of chains, and two masses of black fur hurtle towards me. _Not the dogs again!_ The animals barrel into me and I stagger back, nearly loosing my balance.

For some reason, fighting against dogs always makes me hesitant. Humans can choose whether to commit crime, but dogs just did as their masters trained them. Luckily, that pity always disappears after their teeth sunk into the spaces between my suit. I manage to fling one off and down the elevator shaft, but the other tenaciously hangs on as I tumble towards the ground. I hear the Joker giggling in the background, encouraging the dog.

His voice comes closer, and I roll to face him just as a metal pipe smashed into my side. I grunt, struggling to throw the dog off as the Joker viciously slams the pipe into my side again and again while his psychotic laughter reasonates through the building. _That laughter…_ As strange as it is, his enjoyment makes me fight harder, determined to take every bit of enjoyment away from him. He has ruined my town, and he is going to pay with the only thing I can understand about him.

The next time the Joker swings the pipe, I reach out one hand and grasp onto the metal before it makes contact. I use it to yank myself to my feet, and hurl the second dog after its companion. The Joker uses that distraction to lift up his leg and deliver a crushing kick to my stomach. As I tumble backwards, I can't help but wonder at how much strength he had been able to put into that kick when he looks so scrawny and underfed.

I roll to get back to my feet, the quick movement proving to be too much for the sonar technology. It blacks out, then blinds me with a mosaic of bright colors swirling back and forth. I blink to re-orient myself to the lights, and when I open my eyes again, the Joker's face looms before me, another powerful kick hurtling at me.

This time I crash through a window, landing on my back and dangerously close to the edge. I take a moment to switch the sonar vision off – better to fight blind in a way I know than be distracted by the new technology. Unfortunately, that precious moment is all it takes for the Joker to leap after me and slam a thick metal bar down across my neck. Only quick reflexes and the reinforced armor on my forearm prevents it from being crushed.

He puts one of his leather dress shoes on the bar and crouches down on it, adding his weight to that of the bar. "Now, now, now," he scolds me like one would a young child. "If we don't stop _fighting_, we're gonna miss the fireworks!" His glee is accented by the high pitch of his voice, and the sickening way his scars twist upwards in the parody of a smile.

"There won't _be_ any fireworks." I growl at him, just as the somewhere nearby a clock begins tolling.

_One, two, three,_

The Joker ignores me and focuses on the two farries, visible on the river below. His tongue darts out and wets his lips in excitement, and the clock keeps on tolling.

_Four, five, six, seven,_

None of the ships have blown up yet, and I let a small victorious smile adorn my face. "What were you trying to prove? That deep down, we're all as ugly as you?" He still ignores me, but the smile is just a little smaller, and his eyes are narrowed.

_Eight, nine, ten, eleven,_

The smile has definitely disappeared, and he's glaring at the farries. "You're alone," I taunt, trying to distract him while I figure out a way to escape from underneath the bar. If he would just stop putting his weight on it, I could push it up…

_Twelve…_

There is a barest pause as the last toll reverbrates through the silence, and then the Joker reaches into his pocket. His purple-gloved hand appears again, clutching a crudely made detonator. "Can't rely on anyone these days," he mutters, exasperated at the citizens of Gotham for not following his twisted 'experiment.' He pushes a button, and a light flares to life. His hand hovers over the key, the object that once turned will send two boatloads of my citizens sinking into the river in flaming bits. "Have to do everything your_self._"

He looms over me, meeting my eyes with a strangely serious expression. "I always- always have- and it's not always easy." Something changes in his expression, and the taunting ghoul is back, a smile splitting his scars once again. "You know how I got these scars?"

My eyes flicker to the bar keeping me away from freedom, and land on my gauntlet. The idea hits me like a bolt of lightning and I act fast, silently thanking Fox for all the new features on my suit. I twist my second arm around to switch the release, talking to distract the Joker. "No, but I know how you got_ these!_" the razor-sharp blades whirl out, sinking into the Joker with a satisfying thud.

He staggers back, and I quickly hurl the bar up and lunge after him. I whip my foot out and deliver a crushing kick of my own, snatching the remote out of his loosened grip. He staggers backwards, and disappears over the edge of the platform, a surprised burst of laughter hovering above as he plunges towards the ground.

I stand there motionless for a moment, thoughts whirling through my mind. Should I let him plummet to his death, or should I reach out for my grapple gun and save him? His laughter still remains, and I finally make up my mind. I lunge for the gun and lean over the edge, sending a life-saving line after the cackling murderer. I will not act like him, after having Gotham shown me how much it is willing to keep fighting, after lecturing Dent on how he must stay on the side of morally right.

The line snags one kicking foot, and I feel the sharp tug as he jerks to a stop. My feet slide slightly closer to the edge and my hands are shaking from exaustion, so I hurridly wrap the cable around one of the still-standing support beams. Then I summon the rest of my strength and pull, hand over hand, until the Joker is raised back up to the platform.

The Joker is swaying through the air, waving his hands, that twice-cursed grin still affixed to his face. He throws his arms to the side, giggling slightly at the cable twists and he beings to swing from side to side. The coattails of his purple suit flutter behind him in a twisted parody of wings.

"You-" he gasps through his laughter, "You won't kill me out of some _misplaced_ sense of self-righteousness… and _I _won't kill_ you _because you're too much _fun_! I think we're going to be doing this for_ever_."

I can't help but shiver at his words, because it's frightening to think of such a possibility. To chase after the Joker for the rest of my life on his merry rampages, destroying my city and the spirit of the people in it, constantly facing such insurmountable stress. It was the epitome of a nightmare. But that wouldn't happen, ever. No sane person would allow such a monster to walk free. "You'll be in a padded cell forever," I respond. "This city just showed you it's full of people ready to believe in good."

My words are supposed to take the fight out of him, to make him despair that his real plan, whatever it is, will never happen. Instead, his smile becomes impossibly wider and his laughter gives way to a satisfied hum. "Hmmm, hmm… Till their spirit breaks complete-ah-ly. Until they find out what I did with the best of them. Then those criminals will be straight back onto the streets and Gotham will understand the true nature of heroism."

_The best of them…_ A pit forms in my stomach. Who else could be the best of Gotham besides their savior, Harvey Dent? Despite what I thought was an inscruitable expression, the Joker seems to be able to read my understanding and sudden despair.

"You didn't think I'd risk losing the battle for the soul of Gotham in a fist fight with you? You've got to have an 'ace in the hole'" He dralws the last bit, like he's quoting someone so utterly boring but important. Then, he smiles and continues on in a lighter tone, "Mine's Harvey."

I wrap my hand around his arm and pulled him closer. "What did you do!" My question comes out as a command, and a rush of adrenaline flows through my previously fatigued body. Harvey Dent is my hope for the future, not only Gotham's. And I will not loose this chance for Batman to turn his city over to heroes with a face, or in this late stage to any hero at all.

He wriggles in my grasp. "You know, for a while, I thought you _were_ Dent. The way you-"

I give his arm a sharp tug and level my fiercest glare at him. "Where is he?" I growl. He seems completely unafraid and clears his throat, like it is a simple business proposal he is talking about. "Ah, yes, of course. We only have minutes left. So here's my little game – if you want to save one of them."

For a minute, his word choice didn't register. Then it hits me like a metaphorical slap in the face. "'_One'_ of them?" I pull back a fist to force him to spill whatever plot he has, and he holds up one hand, waving the fingers around.

"Ah, ah, _ah!_ You have to hear the rules first." I pause, fist poised, and he continues. "You see, I'm going to tell you where they are. Both of them – and that's the _point_. Your friend, the District Attourney, or his blushing bride-to-be." His tone goes sickly sweet on the last part, like the thought of love and marriage disgusts him. But he's also looking like that cat that got the canary, and t's almost as if he can taste my fear. His tongue darts out to wet his painted lips, and I can imagine him as a giant lizard, scouring the earth for a perfect meal of death and destruction.

"He's at 250 52nd Boulevard. And _she's_..." He paused for a moment, looking up before continuing._ "_on Avenue X at Cicero."

I push the Joker away and sprint for the other end of the roof, ignoring the monster behind me that has dissolved into hysterical laughter. Rachel's only a few blocks away, and I activate my voice link with Fox once again. "Fox," I say as I crash though the window on the opposite side of the building, "I need you to link me to-" I stop talking as I hear a loud rumbling.

I know what I'm going to see before I turn, but I force myself to anyways. My wooden legs turn to the right and take me forwards to the edge of the platform. There, a mere four blocks away, an old warehouse is blazing. Flaming debris is falling down, and the tongues of fire leap ever higher into the air. I feel like I should be hearing screams, cries of dismay, the fire itself eating through the wood, but everything is silent.

It's an almost impossible hope, but again I force myself to actually see the results. I throw myself off the roof, activate the wings, and wheel to the left, until my view isn't blocked by the building I'd just been in. There, further away, smoke is rising from a blazing inferno. I can't tell the street names, but it doesn't matter. I already know what buildings the Joker has blown up. 250 52nd Boulevard, and Avenue X at Cicero.

In the background, Fox is still speaking. "Bruce? Bruce, are you there? Can you hear me? What's happen-" I flip of the link and glide aimlessly down into the heart of my city. I had saved my city, but two of the most important people are dead. I sink into the grime of inner-city Gotham, trying to figure out whether I had failed or succeeded. I mourn and wonder - if I had done something different, if I had just weathered it through as Alfred had said instead of turning myself in, would I have been able to save them? Would it have ended any other way?

* * *

A/N: Done! So, tell me how you thought this turned out. And do you think I should add a little epilogue or just leave it as it is? Also, I have a poll going on to see which genre I should word on next, and It'd be great if you guys could vote :)


	14. Epilogue

**A/N:** Here is is, the epilogue! And this POV is sort-of a mystery until the very end, but I won't be surprised if some of you guess it before then :) Story now, A/N and sappy thank-yous later.

* * *

It was easier than I thought it would be to break into Wayne Manor. All it required was some low-tech acrobatics and a good old-fashioned lock pick. Getting onto the grounds undetected - there was the real challenge challenge. Rumor had it the security system was custom-made by the top scientists in Wayne's company, with personal input from Wayne himself. It didn't help that the security system also included a huge ornate iron fence with spikes tipping every post.

It took some quick talking and even quicker reflexes to get even close enough to the building. Wayne had buffed up security (or at least made it more obvious) after he had revealed himself to be Batman. I had to pull in a lot of favors I had with the New York and Chicago crime rings. Fortunately, all my hard work paid off. I was able to creep past the top-notch security system with only a few close calls, and the rest was just old-fashioned burglary.

The house was dark, but moonlight streamed in through the open windows and allowed just enough light to navigate by. I snuck past yet another door, desperately trying to remember the instructions. _A left, past three doorways and up the stairs, down the far right hallway just after a quick left-right turn... _Why did rich people's houses always have such confusing floor plans?

I finally ended up in what I thought was the right room, and waited. If my timing was right, he would be coming in right about… I wish I had a watch. Wayne was supposed to arrive soon, but with no way to tell time, I couldn't tell whether I had missed his entrance or if I had just gotten into place earlier than expected.

I move further into the room, and hold back a curse as I bump into something. It falls to the ground with a dull thump, and I quickly pick it up with as little noise as possible. I hold my breath as I gently replace the object (possibly a hand weight of some sort?), which turns out to be a lucky break for me. The door opens with the barest swoosh of noise, and if I had not been paying attention to every noise, I would have missed it. Luckily, burglary tends to attune you to even the smallest noises.

I pause for a minute, and then let out a silent sigh as nobody appears. I step away from the table, clothes rustling slightly. Something flashes in the moonlight, and I grunt as something hits me smack on the chest. I bring a hand up and touch the smooth metallic contours of a bat-shaped throwing star lodged in my body armor. Aw, crap…

I only have room for that small thought before the former Batman launches a bone-crushing punch at my face. It sends me stumbling back, and I manage to kick out one leg out as I fell. It connected with Wayne's leg, but he simply used some sort of hop-step combination to regain his balance.

I rolled onto my back then used my legs to propel myself to my feet (a move I had spent weeks trying to perfect) and steeled myself for a fight that would inevitably end with me losing. His dark looming form comes at me, and I'm really thankful I didn't have to face him in his intimidating Batman gear.

He launches a flurry of punches at me, and it's all I can do to simply try and keep up blocking. He moves fluidly from one attack to the other, always managing to find a flaw in my defense and land a jarring blow. Strangely, after the first few rounds, he seems to pull back. The strength and the speed are still there, but he's pulling back his blows and skipping over obvious gaps.

At first, I think it's because he's tired. After all, he hasn't been on the streets for a while. Then I realize what he's really doing. A man like Batman doesn't get out of practice, he doesn't slow down. He _does_ play with the burglar in his house and test his abilities. I don't know why, but that makes me offended. I should be _beating_ him! I'm better than the man that left Gotham to rot after everything he'd done to get the people's hopes up.

I stop defending and start attacking, dredging up every last bit of martial arts knowledge. I throw caution to the winds and use up every last bit of energy I have. It's still not enough. I manage to land a few blows, but that is because he's purposely only defending himself. I throw punches and kicks and combinations of the two until I'm completely worn out.

It is only then that he moves in a flurry of movement. Before I can understand what's happening, he's pinned me to the wall. One of his forearms in pressed against my throat. I can still breath, but its there as a warning. _Don't screw around,_ it says. I just hang there as try to suck in as much air as I can into my burning lungs.

He gives me a minute or two to catch my breath, and we both look at each other in the meantime. I can just barely make out the glare on his face, deep scowl accented by the hard lines on his face. His eyes bore into mine, and they make me want to sob for my parents or the police or anybody to help me. It's scary, that's what it is. The legends and stories of how much fear Batman put into the hardened criminals seem just a little more realistic.

"Who are you?" He phrases it as a question, but it sounds like a demand. His voice is low and gravelly, and he's practically the personification of intimidation. My mouth dries up and suddenly my oh-so-brilliant plan doesn't seem so sane anymore. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

His glare became impossibly darker, and he demanded again, "Who are you?"

Well, here goes nothing. "Teach me," I say. My plan hadn't exactly included him discovering me beforehand and attacking me, but I was determined to go through with it. Why else would I have abandoned Gotham to work as a low-scale criminal? I had learned everything I could from the inside of the beast. Now, I needed someone who could tell me how to slay it. I needed help from someone who had done the same thing before me, who had fought against the mob and the world's worst criminal this century and won

His face his hard and unchanged, and for a second I worry that I hadn't actually said anything. Had I just imagined myself speaking? I open my mouth and try to regain my ebbing courage, when he finally speaks. "What did you say?"

Why oh why oh why did I have to insist on doing this? I could have chickened out any number of times before this, but I had to be stubborn and insist on it. His question was more rhetorical than literal, but I answer it anyways. Maybe if I said it enough times I'd actually regain the illusion that it was a good idea. "I said," I gasp, "Teach me." Maybe I should be more specific… "Teach me how to fight like that." The only way I will get as good as Batman is to learn from him.

"Why?" he barks at me.

Yeah, that might be a good idea to explain. "So I can fight criminals. Like Batman did." _Before you abandoned us to the filth still crawling around after the Joker had left._ He says nothing, so I take a fortifying breath and continue on with the speech I had worked on since the far-fetched idea had popped into my head. "People are becoming complacent again. Crime is rising. The new DA is doing what he can but it's not enough. They need someone like Batman-" They need _Batman_, but if he won't do it I'll become the second-best option- "out on the streets again, showing the scum that the streets don't belong to them."

Wayne must have seen the papers, read the headlines. Crime was rising, the mob was crawling back into the slums. The prisons were emptying, cops tentatively accepting bribes again. Gordon couldn't watch everyone in the police department, and some police were better than none. The new DA was tentative, and wouldn't take the bold moves that Dent had been unafraid to pursue. The mold of crime was slowly seeping back into Gotham City.

Batman slowly removed his arm from my neck, and stepped away. For a minute, I was confused, until there was a flick and the room was bathed with artificial light. I squinted in the sudden brightness. He simply stood by the lamp and looked at me, taking in everything from the black domino mask covering part of my face to my scruffy second-hand combat boots. He looked at my clothes – dark wine red pants and shirt with swirling black lines- and at the design I had made for myself displayed proudly on my heavy-duty gloves.

I looked down at my chest, and nearly fainted as I saw where the batarang had lodged itself – right above my heart in the police-issue vest I wore for protection. Despite the battle, it had stayed firmly lodged in the Kevlar.

The former vigilante's face is impassive, and I try not to fidget as he seems to weigh me on some sort of scale. Finally, after what seems like forever, he speaks. It isn't in the low intimidating voice, but something between that and Wayne's normal pitch. "If you choose to do this, you won't be able to turn back. You'll have to do it every day, through illness, injury, and the curses of the public."

I lift my chin up, daring him to think me incompetent. I had taught myself matial arts, I had gotten myself accepted into one of the most notoriously closed mobs in New York, I had stayed dedicated to my goal despite hardship and the lure of limitless money. I had abandoned the city I loved and abandoned my dreams to be a police officer, just to take up the mantle that he had dumped unceremoniously at Gotham's feet. "I want to do this."

He's still weighing me, still trying to find something. He inclines his head in acknowledgement, but he's still looking. I don't know what it is, so I just silently will him to find whatever he's looking for.

"What's your name?"

At this, a grin slowly begins to inch across my face. My name had been one of the most difficult things to choose. The public had given Batman his name, but he had already had a symbol. I needed both, and I spent endless days trying to find just the right one for both. Smirk now firmly on my face, I raise up one hand and clench it into a fist. I turn my palm towards me, and let Wayne see the design embroidered on the back of my glove. "You can call me the Robin."

* * *

**A/N:** Tada! The End! Done! Finite! Seriously, that's all folks. And I'd like to thank a few people right here. First, for Destined Jedi who gave me ideas and was generally friendly and very helpful. Second, to gab4eva24 who gave me a metaphorical kick in the you-know-where when I got sloppy with updates and just kinda posted up whatever I had. And to every other person who has reviewed (or will review) this story, a huge thanks. If it hadn't been for you guys, this story would have probably ended up being a twoshot. I'm sure all you fellow writers out there know how motivating reviews can be. So basically, kudos to everyone and hugs all around. Give yourself a pat on the back for being a positive person and reviewing. And to all you silent readers out there, I hope you enjoyed.


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